


Unmarked (Master and Servant #3)

by Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson)



Series: Waterman [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1910s, Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - 20th Century, Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - General Store, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Original, Alternate Universe - Rugby, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Alternate Universe - Sports, Boarding School, Boats and Ships, Bullies, Chesapeake, Class Issues, Courage, Ethical Issues, Gay Male Character, Historical slash, Hurt/Comfort, Lighthouse, Lighthouse Keeper, M/M, Maryland, Original Fiction, Original Slash, Pranks, Rugby, School Sports, Slash, Sports, Students, abuse issues, alternate universe - Maryland, don't need to read other stories in the series, fagging, fishermen, liege lords, liegemen, prefects, public school, servantfic, slavefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 72,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson
Summary: "Master Meredith, whose entitlement to a last name had not yet been determined by the courts, was sitting in a window-seat overlooking the playing fields of Narrows School when the Third House bullies found him."He needs a guard.In his final terms of school before his university years, Meredith is faced with a host of problems: A prefect who abuses his power. A games captain who is supposed to protect Meredith but has befriended the prefect. And a legal status that makes everyone in the school question whether Meredith belongs there, among the elite.Unexpectedly, rescue arrives, in the shape of a fellow student who seems determined to right wrongs. There's only one problem. . . ."Fair play" is the motto of the Third House, but that motto takes on a different meaning when Meredith is secretly wooed by a young man from a rival House.Boilerplate warning for all my stories + my rating system.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: Waterman [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/15171
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19
Collections: A Whisper to the  Dark Side, Chains: The Powerfic Archive, Historical Fic, Queer Characters Collection, Slavefic Central, Stove Stories





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _**Author's note:** This is the third story in _Master and Servant _, the first volume in the Waterman series. You don't need to read the other stories in the series to understand this one._
> 
> _However, in case you're confused by the apparent contradiction between my tags and the story's dating system: This is a 1910s culture in a world based on the future as it was envisioned in the 1960s. Got that straight? All will be explained in the story._

_Cycle forward: 1962 Clover, Autumn Waning week._  


> "These friendships colour the life of a public school boy in the same way that love colours life for the adult male; and indeed it is love; a particular type of love; an idealistic, un-self-seeking, Platonic love; a love that is based on service and devotion . . ."
> 
> —Alec Waugh, speaking in _The Early Years of Alec Waugh_ of his time as a student at Sherborne School, Dorset, in the 1910s.

  
**CHAPTER ONE**

Master Meredith, whose entitlement to a last name had not yet been determined by the courts, was sitting in a window-seat overlooking the playing fields of Narrows School when the Third House bullies found him. 

He had been daydreaming over a copy of _The Tale of Celadon and Brun_ that the chapel master had given him upon the day of his confirmation to journeyman status, two terms earlier. The confirmation-day edition was of the sort thought suitable for the apprentice-aged students who were preparing for their journeymanship, which was to say that the most interesting bits had been omitted. It had not mattered. Meredith's own imagination had been able to supply the missing scenes, even if the details of those scenes were always rather vague in his mind. He had walked in once on Rudd when Pembroke was in service to him; that had resulted in the worst beating Rudd had ever given Meredith, but Meredith had treasured his memory of what he had witnessed, carefully erasing Rudd from the scene and placing himself in Pembroke's role. Sometimes the second party in his daydreams was Pembroke; more often, as the months passed, it was the Head of the Second House. But the latter possibility was even less likely than Meredith being called upon to serve Pembroke, so now he was simply daydreaming about Remigeus/Celadon and Brun, and wondering what Remigeus/Celadon had done that had caused Brun to love and protect him. 

From outside came occasional booms and cheers from the playing field; the Seventh House was playing footer with the Twelfth House on this afternoon, desperately trying to improve its standings in the race toward the Spring Term Cup. Autumn still held court now; leaves were drifting down to carpet the lawn near the circular wall that formed the boundary around the circular grounds of the circular school buildings. Further into the New Building, in the direction of the inner circle, came the upraised voices of Fletcher and some other first-ranked students, arguing over whether it was fair play to use a crib. Meredith assumed that Rudd was not present for the discussion, or he would have settled the matter at once. The studies and dormitories of the second- and third-ranked students were quiet; nearly all of those students were in class at this time of day, though Meredith, who held one of the highest academic spots in the Lower Seventh, was excused from taking Service & Protocol class, probably because his House Master assumed that he already knew everything that could be said on that subject. 

So he was simply sitting there, daydreaming about Remigeus/Celadon serving Brun, and not even _touching_ himself, when suddenly he found himself surrounded by Fletcher and his gang. 

He nearly fell out the window, onto the lawn. By the time he had realized that this was probably the only safe course he could have taken, it was too late. Leering at him, Fletcher snapped, "Stand up, Meredith. Have respect for your betters." 

He set down the book and rose slowly to his feet, his heart pounding like waves in a storm. Fletcher's gang was a mixture of all three master-ranks; he could see that Jeffries, who was third-ranked, had skived off from class to hang around with the gang, which meant that Meredith wasn't entirely surrounded by his "betters." But of course they all knew that Fletcher was not referring to Meredith's provisional status as a third-ranked master. Fletcher had ceased even pretending that by Meredith's second term at Narrows School. 

Eighteen terms with Fletcher, six sun-circuits, two tri-years. This was Meredith's nineteenth term; he had only two more terms left after this before he and Fletcher would part ways. If Meredith never met that first-ranked master again during every incarnation of his lives to come, he would be supremely happy. 

In the meantime, Fletcher was a friend of Rudd's. It wouldn't do to antagonize him. 

Fletcher had picked up Meredith's book and was examining its cover. " _The Tale of Celadon and Brun._ Well, well, dreaming about service, are you? I suppose that you're imagining what it's like to be Brun?" 

The gang roared with laughter at this ironic statement. Meredith barely managed to keep himself from sighing. After two tri-years, Fletcher's tactics were becoming tediously familiar – which wasn't to say that they were any less painful. 

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm scheduled to meet with House Master Nevins this afternoon," Meredith said in his politest voice. It was a lie, but one that would be hard to check on; the Third House's House Master rarely emerged from his study except during class-time, since he had decided that devoting himself to the appreciation of poetry was far more important than paying attention to the students who were nominally under his supervision. 

"'Excuse me, sir, but I'm scheduled to meet with House Master Nevins,'" Fletcher repeated in a high-pitched voice that bore no resemblance to Meredith's baritone. "Isn't that sweet, fellows? He must have the Service & Protocol text memorized. One would almost think that he sleeps with it under his pillow." 

The gang snickered. Meredith tried edging himself toward a gap in the crowd, then gasped with pain as Fletcher grabbed him. Fletcher was holding his prefects' cane, which he had battered into a point because he used it for picket practice in the summertime. The point sliced into Meredith's arm. 

Fletcher took no notice of this, of course. "You haven't learned your protocol very well, Meredith-with-no-last-name. You should be kneeling down and asking me, 'What service do you require of me, master?'" 

"You're not my liege-master, sir," Meredith said through gritted teeth. 

This brought howls of laughter. Jeffries crowed, "Do you think Pembroke makes Meredith kneel down to him? Oh, I can't wait to tell Davenham – he'll rag Pembroke for weeks about this!" 

"Well, why shouldn't Meredith-with-no-last-name kneel down to him?" Fletcher asked with a grin. "I'll bet he wants to. I'll bet he enjoys kneeling down to Rudd. In fact, I'll bet he wants to kneel down to all of us, don't you, bastard-of-a-slave?" 

Meredith refrained from pointing out he wasn't a bastard and that slavery had been abolished tri-centuries before; that would only lead the discussion in the direction he was desperately trying to avoid. Instead, feeling one of his rare moments of courage, he said, "Sir, you're violating the Abuse of Power Act." 

There was a sudden silence. Narrows School's Head Master, pleasant in most matters, had taken to tacking articles onto the notice-boards about the latest masters who had been sent to Prison City for abusing their power. The Head Master had made it quite clear that he would not stand for such misdeeds in his school, and that any student found abusing his power would be sent down summarily. 

Too late, Meredith realized that the silence was merely a presage to an explosion of laughter. "What a chump!" cried Jeffries joyfully. "He walked right into his own trap!" 

"The Abuse of Power Act punishes masters who abuse their power over _servants_." Fletcher always felt compelled to point out the obvious. "Are you admitting it, then? That you're a servant?" 

He struggled to regain control of the situation. "There's a provision in the third section of the act . . . It's against masters who treat other masters as though they were servants . . ." 

It was too late; nobody was listening to him now. Fletcher threw him against the wall; Jeffries, who was the closest, took the opportunity to punch Meredith in the ribs, and then Fletcher had Meredith down on his knees as he shouted, "Admit it! Admit that you want to serve us!" 

Meredith was struggling to rise. It had never happened yet, but he always feared what would happen if the bullies began to think about creative ways in which he could serve them while on his knees. Certainly Rudd's mind moved that way, and if Rudd had shared tales of his fun . . . 

Somebody slapped Meredith's head; his House cap, which he had won after twelve terms on the Third House's footer team, fell off and was trampled by a boot. Somebody else tugged at his uniform, announcing that he should be dressed in a servants' uniform, not a students'. He heard cloth rip and had a moment to wonder where, out of his small allowance, he would be able to find the money for a new uniform. 

Then someone said, "Watch out! It's the Head!" and everyone fell silent. 

Fletcher turned, looking annoyed rather than concerned. While Rudd hated being disturbed, he was unlikely to cane a fellow prefect within the Third House for ragging Meredith. If a prefect from another House had been ragging Meredith, that would have been an entirely different matter, of course; the Third House protected its own against outsiders. 

It even protected a student whose status as a master had not yet been determined by the courts. 

So Fletcher looked merely annoyed; then his annoyance deepened as he saw which lad the other students had parted to make way for. "Get the bloody blades out of here, Carruthers," he said. "You're in Third House territory. We don't welcome dredgers here." 

The Head of the Second House didn't reply immediately. Master M Carruthers (nobody had been able to figure out why he only had an initial for his first name) was generally acknowledged to be the most popular youth in the Upper Seventh. At the beginning of term, there had been competition amongst the younger second-rankers of his House over who should fag for him, even though it was Carruthers's choice to make, not theirs. Meredith could not remember who had won the competition in the end; the decision had been made around the same time that Pembroke decided to have Meredith fag for Rudd. Meredith had been too aghast at the idea of fagging during his Seventh Form – fagging for _Rudd_ , of all people – to pay attention to Second House gossip . . . though in moments of honesty, he had been forced to admit to himself that the competition to serve Master Carruthers had been of some interest to him. 

Now Carruthers took a moment to look over the gang. Unlike Pembroke, who would have dealt with such a matter by giving everyone an icy look, there was no expression on the face of the Head of the Second House. Carruthers had always been a difficult young man to read. His voice was also quite bland as he said, "You're disturbing my House with your noise. I have first-rankers studying for their university exams. Indeed," he added in that same bland voice, "I was under the impression that this was also the study period for the Third House's first-rankers. And class time for nearly everyone else." His gaze lingered for a moment on Jeffries, who was beginning to look nervous. 

"It's none of your bloody business," Fletcher replied. "This is the Third House; get out of our waters." 

"Or we'll fetch the Oyster Navy," giggled someone else, and several more of the students laughed. 

Carruthers ignored them. "It's my business if you're disturbing the study time in my House. Fletcher, you're a prefect. If you're not willing to keep order here, I'll have to go to Rudd. He's with Pembroke right now, isn't he?" 

Fletcher's face went suddenly blank. Several of the first-rankers shuffled in place, exchanging glances. If there was anything one learned in the Third House, it was that Rudd disliked being disturbed when he was alone with Pembroke. He was inclined to cane any student who knocked on his door during such times. And since Carruthers was the Head of another House and therefore could not be caned by Rudd . . . 

"Oh, dwell forever in afterdeath," snarled Fletcher, stepping away. "Come on, fellows. The Head Prefect of the Second House is too _dainty_ to be able to stand a little noise. I guess we'll have to protect his _gentle_ ears." 

Carruthers gave the faintest of smiles, saying nothing. Several of the students glanced at each other, and then all of them were laughing, not at Carruthers, but at Fletcher. Everyone there had seen Carruthers on the playing field. 

Fletcher looked as though he would explode like a footer ball, but one of the other first-rankers, still laughing, pulled him away. The rest of the crowd dispersed, leaving Meredith kneeling dishevelled on the floor. 

He stared up at Master Carruthers. The Head was dressed in his flannels, having evidently been in the process of changing from footer, for his calf-length boots and bare knees were spattered with mud. The mud clung to the fine hairs on his thighs. His jersey was opened two buttons at the top, showing a sheen of sweat in the hollow of his neck. 

Hastily, Meredith lowered his eyes, then remembered, too late, that this was as foolish an act as staring. Now warm with confusion, he raised his eyes till he could see Carruthers's face. 

Carruthers had an unremarkable face. That was what everyone said. Unlike his father, he was neither handsome nor striking; the first time you passed him on the street, your gaze would glide right over him. His appearance was in no way special— 

"You may stand up, if you like." 

Meredith found himself on his feet before he knew he had moved. Carruthers's voice always did that to him, on the rare occasions that the Head took passing notice of him. Meredith would have been ashamed of his reaction, except that half the other lads in school had similar tales. Nobody had been able to figure out what magic lay in Carruthers's voice. It wasn't in the wording, for if any other master had spoken his words, those words would have sounded merely polite, almost deferential. Nor did Carruthers speak with a tone of aggression, like Rudd. His voice was . . . it was . . . 

"Is that your cap?" 

Masterful. That was the word for it. Meredith hastily grabbed his cap from the floor and then, since the cap seemed only a bit dusty, placed it on his head. 

"Master . . ." Carruthers made the word into a query. 

He swallowed and forced himself not to lower his eyes. "I'm Meredith, sir." 

"Master Meredith – yes, of course." And oh, how glorious a happening – there was no mockery in Carruthers's voice as he spoke Meredith's provisional title. "Where is your liege-master? Is he in class?" 

"No, sir. My liege-master is Master Pembroke." 

"I see." 

There was something in Carruthers's voice that made Meredith dip his eyes again. He felt a flush of shame spread across his face at his action. He wasn't sure where to look. Not down – he knew that much, had known that much since the first week of first form. But staring straight into the eyes of the heir to the Second Landstead would be far too bold. He tried looking halfway up, but that simply left him with a view of the jersey clinging to Carruthers's torso. 

"Your arm is scratched. Do you have anyone besides your liege-master who will take care of that for you?" 

He could not have said why, at that moment, tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. He shook his head, hoping that Carruthers would not notice this sign of weakness. 

"You'd best come with me, then." Carruthers turned and, without another word, made his way to the door leading out of the Third House. 

Meredith actually hesitated a moment, an act that would have earned him amazed stares from any other lad who had received an order from Carruthers. Nobody was in sight to witness his hesitation, though. Feeling like a hooked fish, he hurried after Carruthers. 

An outdoors, covered passage served as the borderline between the Third House and the Second House, but Carruthers did not linger there; he pulled open the door to his own House, then waited for Meredith to enter first, as though the Head Prefect of the Second House had transformed himself into a servant. Meredith stepped over the threshold and found himself in the midst of a group of footer players who were emerging from the Second House's changing room, all neatly dressed now in their school uniforms. They had been laughing at some joke, but the laughter died as they caught sight of Meredith, wearing his House cap with the Third House's seal clearly woven below the school seal. 

"Good practice," said Carruthers, coming in behind Meredith. His words of praise to the players held a faintly dismissive tone to them. The lads hastily retreated, but only as far as the end of the corridor. They stood there in a cluster, muttering as they shot looks at Meredith and their Head. 

Carruthers had beckoned over one of the older lads. Meredith recognized him from the playing field as Arthurs, a first-ranked fifth-former who was Carruthers's closest friend. The two young men exchanged murmured words for a moment before Arthurs passed something into Carruthers's hand. Meredith caught a flashing glimpse of the object: a key. 

Carruthers gestured, and Meredith quickly followed him to the door from which the footer players had emerged. Meredith walked in behind Carruthers; as he did so, Arthurs swung into place next to the door, as obvious a guard against intrusion as any lad could be. He did not look at Meredith. 

Meredith paused just inside the doorway, uncertain. The voices of the Second House's footer players were louder now, though he still could not distinguish their words. 

"We'd best shut out that noise, I think." Carruthers glanced up from the other side of the room, where he was pulling off his jersey. 

"I'll do it, sir," Meredith replied quickly and turned to close the door. He suspected that half his motive for helping was to rid himself of the sight of the Head, who was now stripped to the waist. Meredith stared at the door, wondering what excuse he could use to keep his eyes turned away from the spectacle behind him. 

Then he heard the creak of a bench-board near him, and he caught the whiff of mud mixed with tangy sweat. His mind – always the most visual of creatures – envisioned what was taking place behind him. And all his instincts, which he had tried so hard to tame, flew loose. Before he knew it, he was on his knees in front of Carruthers, saying, "Shall I take care of this for you, sir?" 

Carruthers stared down at him, his eyebrows raised slightly. His father was said to confine his work to the office, but Carruthers had hard muscles, like that of a waterman who pulls up a heavy dredge-net daily. No doubt those muscles came from his time on his House teams. The smell of his body was stronger here: it was the smell of a master who has been laboring hard alongside his men to achieve his goals. Meredith's hands hovered in the air, inches from Carruthers's mud-spattered bootlaces. 

And Meredith was – oh, the horror of it! – kneeling on both his knees, like a servant. He tried shifting his body so that he knelt on one knee, but that was no better; that was the position of a liegeman. A liegeman kneeling in front of a man who was not his liege-master. 

Finally Carruthers spoke. His voice was matter-of-fact but deliberate. "If you have the inclination to do so, that is kind of you." 

Meredith felt his face burn, even as his fingers, heedless of any warning he might send them, set to work. He well knew why Carruthers had been phrasing his orders so carefully since the conversation began – phrasing them so that they were not orders. No higher-ranked master was normally permitted to give orders to a liegeman outside his own House – or, in the case of a High Master and his heir, to anyone outside his own landstead. Without explicit permission from that liegeman's liege-master to give such orders, the high-ranked master would face the penalties prescribed by the High Masters' high law: fines, or, in the most scandalous cases, a sending down in rank. Meredith wondered whether Carruthers thought that the Third House lad kneeling in front of him was seeking to trap him into forbidden activity. 

If so, Carruthers was evading the trap in an admirable manner. It was forbidden for Carruthers to give orders to a liegeman outside his own landstead, "but a liegeman may freely offer his service to any higher-ranked master, provided that it does not conflict with his duties to his own liege-master." That was what the Abuse of Power Act said, in the section on the abuse of liegemen. And so Carruthers was treading narrowly within the path permitted to him, and Meredith . . . Well, Pembroke had not actually forbidden his liegeman from serving other masters, had he? It was not as though Pembroke needed Meredith's service right now. 

Or at any time. 

So Meredith justified the matter in his mind, while guilt and uncertainty churned inside him. Nothing of this could have been guessed from his fingers, which nimbly undid the bootlaces, then carefully pulled off Carruthers's boots and socks. Meredith's hands were now filthy with mud. 

"There's a sink over there." Carruthers pointed. 

Gratefully, Meredith rose and made his way over to the basin, while behind him, a rustle of cloth told him that Carruthers was stripping himself of the last of his clothes. Resolutely setting himself against his instincts, which were telling him to go back and help with this part of the operation, he pumped cold water over his hands, watching the mud swirl around the bottom of the basin before disappearing into the drain. 

There must be more than one pump in the changing room, for Meredith could hear the slide of metal against metal as Carruthers pumped water, probably in anticipation of a sponge bath. Meredith firmly shut this image out of his mind, concentrating his attention on using a washcloth to rub away the mud under his fingernails. Fastidious students found the school's plumbing to be something of a challenge; most students, such as Rudd, found the plumbing to be a downright insult. The water came directly from the school's wells, so there was no hot water except once a week, when the servants would prepare hip baths for everyone by boiling great vats of water. There were no flushing toilets either; the students made do with chamber-pots, emptied by those same servants. Even by the primitive standards of the Dozen Landsteads, Narrows School had a reputation for austere living. 

Meredith had grown up with plumbing even more primitive: he was used to drawing up water from a well by way of a bucket, or to turning the spigot of a rain-water tank. He had never immersed himself in a bath before he came to Narrows School; all his bathing was done outside, in the rain. Moreover, the family outhouse he had cleaned regularly as a young boy was far more onerous a duty than his present duty of emptying Rudd's chamber-pot daily. Meredith was one of the few students who had never commented negatively on the school plumbing, which sometimes merited him odd looks from the other students. 

"Waterman," Fletcher had once whispered to Meredith as they were leaving chapel, while all of the other students were rolling their eyes at the chapel master's feeble attempt that morning to argue that cold-water sponge baths would bring the young masters further toward transformation and rebirth. "I'll bet you're used to icy water in wintertime." 

"So is your sister," Meredith had whispered back. In a scandal that had provided much ammunition for the gleeful students of the Second House, Fletcher's sister had eloped the previous year with a third-ranked captain from the Fifth Landstead. She was now living in a village on Smith Island, far from the comfortable life she had led as sister to the fourth highest-ranked master in the Third Landstead. 

Fletcher had punched Meredith's arm, which had earned him a caning from the Head Master, who had overheard the conversation and therefore knew that Fletcher had started the dispute. That had been one of the few times Meredith had scored a hit against one of his bullies. It had taken him a month to rid himself of the subsequent feelings of guilt over having caused harm to a master. 

Now Meredith stood by the basin, resolutely refusing to look behind him as Carruthers cleaned his naked body. The changing room, set against the outer wall of the students' building, was a pleasantly designed room. It curved the full length of the Second House's portion of the building, with light struggling its way through the lace-fringed shades that were currently drawn in order to provide privacy to the players as they changed into their uniforms. The autumn term was still young, so the room was warm. Someone must have opened a window behind the shades, because Meredith could smell new-cut lawn, as well as the pungent smell of the marshland surrounding the school. 

"Let's look at your arm now." 

Meredith cautiously turned round. Carruthers stood fully dressed in his school uniform: shoes, trousers, shirt, vest, and a dark blue blazer – blue to represent transformation. No doubt he was entitled to a House cap as well, but he was as bareheaded as always. His hair was the color of yellow cordgrass when sun shone upon it. His eyes shimmered grey like pebbles in a pond. His skin was darker than the usual milky-white shade that distinguished masters from servants; one of the more vicious rumors circulating in the Third House was that Carruthers's parents, who were notorious Egalitarians, forced Carruthers to do servant-work during holidays. Meredith refused to believe the rumor, if only because he could not imagine any servant standing by and allowing Carruthers to do work on his behalf. 

Carruthers had turned toward a table beside the students' lockers and was pulling open a first aid kit marked with the symbol of the Red Circle, for Narrows School was one of the few Dozen Landstead institutions that was charitable enough to raise funds for that international, humanitarian organization. "Giving money to the Yclau!" Rudd had once said in anger. One of Rudd's ancestors had drafted the Embargo Act of 1912. 

Carruthers – like his father – clearly had no qualms about using foreign technology, for he was pulling out the kit's contents, carefully selected by the school, so as not to contravene the Embargo Act: bichloride of mercury tablets, tincture of iodine, aromatic spirits of ammonia, carbolized petroleum jelly, rubber tubes for tourniquets, adhesive plaster, picric acid gauze, cascara tablets, crystals of hydrated magnesium sulfate, and crystals of potassium permanganate. The last item – used to treat poisonous snake bites – was next to useless for a kit used on a Bay-island school, but some of the school's students who came from the mainland were convinced that every harmless water snake they saw was a venomous water moccasin. 

In a prosaic manner, Carruthers focussed his attention on the kit's scissors and roll of bandages. As he cut a small square of bandage off the roll, he said, "Two pieces will do for now, I think, until we've cleaned your arm." 

He was holding the scissors awkwardly, and Meredith remembered suddenly that Carruthers had sprained his right wrist at the last footer match. Meredith cried: "Oh, _please_ , sir, let me do that for you!" 

A moment later, he would gladly have borrowed Carruthers's heirship dagger and plunged it into himself. Carruthers glanced over at him, but this time he made no comment upon Meredith's eccentric eagerness. He simply handed Meredith the scissors and stepped aside. Meredith cut the final piece, sweat slickening his palms. He could feel Carruthers's gaze upon him. 

"There's a bench over there that you might feel comfortable sitting on." Once again, Carruthers was being exceedingly careful in his wording. Meredith went over to the bench; then, at Carruthers's suggestion, he dragged it over to the table where the kit lay. 

He felt light-headed as he sat down. The bench – which had been carved with the names of generations of Second House lads – was irregular under his bare thighs. The day had grown warm enough that Meredith had changed, that afternoon, back into his apprentice-aged clothing: short trousers and no blazer, only a vest, with his sleeves rolled up. Now Carruthers had Meredith pull up his right sleeve further so that the cloth would be well away from the cut. 

"Fletcher's work, I take it." Carruthers placed his hands around Meredith's forearm and gently pressed the skin next to the cut with his fingers. 

"Yes, sir. His cane." Meredith was all too aware now of the firmness of Carruthers's grip, and the tenderness of his probing. 

"We'll have to hope, then, that he hasn't been sticking his cane into the ground for picket practice recently." He let go of Meredith. "The cut doesn't look deep, but tomorrow morning, when the school physician arrives, you should go straight to the sanatorium and have him check on you. If you wish, that is," Carruthers carefully amended his command. 

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." 

"He may want to treat you with tetanus antitoxin. In the meantime" – Carruthers's fingers were suddenly on Meredith's forearm again, squeezing hard – "I'll do what I can." 

Meredith held his breath as Carruthers squeezed blood out of the cut, then carefully wiped off the blood with one of the pieces of sterile bandaging that Meredith had cut. "This needs a bit of antiseptic," said Carruthers, straightening up. He leaned over Meredith, reaching for a bottle labelled "Peroxide of Hydrogen." 

Meredith forgot to let out his breath. Sitting as he was, his face was only inches now from Carruthers's chest. The strong smell of sweat on Carruthers's body had been replaced, after the sponge bath, with a sweet, salty scent that reminded Meredith of Bay water. 

"Hold still," said Carruthers as he pulled back, adding, "if you don't mind." He poured a few drops of the antiseptic onto the wound. It fizzed, biting into the fresh wound. Meredith remained still and silent, as he had done when Carruthers had probed his cut and forced out blood. 

He looked up from Carruthers's hands to see that the Head was watching him. "You're a player on the Third House footer team, as I recall?" Carruthers said. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Ah. That explains it." Carruthers turned his attention back to the cut. 

Meredith felt a warm glow cover him then. No further words were needed from Carruthers; the Head did not need to say, "You bear pain well." His sentiments were contained in the simple words, "You're a player." 

"Now" – Carruthers turned his attention to the bandage roll – "all that we need do is cover this, and you should be fine till the morning. Hold this, please. . . . I mean, if you would like." 

As he took the roll in his hand, Meredith could not help but notice that Carruthers was beginning to find it more difficult to phrase his commands as suggestions. No doubt that was due to Meredith's own idiocy at flinging himself into any task that Carruthers needed done. Biting his lip, Meredith watched as Carruthers carefully inspected the cut to be sure that it was now dry, then took the roll from Meredith's hand. The Head began to roll the bandage round and round Meredith's wrist, anchoring the bandage on the easiest part of his arm to cover. 

As he did so, Meredith felt his vision shift, as though he had become dizzy. 

This shifting of vision had happened to him several times in his life. 

Concerned that he might be afflicted with an ailment, he had once consulted his father. After questioning him carefully, his father had said, "Ah, that's nothing. I've had that too. It's cycle back or cycle forward." 

"You mean I'm remembering a previous life or one of my future lives?" Meredith had asked, intrigued. 

"Or something that has happened to you in the past of this life or will happen to you before you die. It's nothing to worry yourself 'bout. It's just one cycle of time touching another, as time spirals upward. Everyone has that happen to them, sometime or another." 

Now, watching Carruthers bandage his wrist, Meredith let his thoughts drift away from wondering what incident in the past or future had triggered cycle back or cycle forward. The incident need not have anything at all to do with Carruthers, he knew; it might be that someone had bandaged him in a past life or would do so again. There was likely no way he would ever know. 

What interested him more was Carruthers's sure touch as he rolled the bandage round Meredith's wrist. Meredith was aware, of course, that Carruthers occasionally bandaged his own players when his House's medics were otherwise occupied. The fact that Carruthers had done service work for his lesser-ranked masters had been commented on throughout the school, particularly in the Third House, which always sought signs of weakness in its rivals. The Second House students – staunchly loyal to their Head Prefect – had maintained that Carruthers was doing, not medics' work, but physicians' work. The distinction was an important one, for medics were servants, while physicians were masters. But Carruthers himself had denied this distinction, stating that he was not about to let one of his players suffer needlessly, simply in order to prove to the school that he was sufficiently masterful. 

Now, watching as Carruthers began to fold the bandage backwards in a spiral-reverse pattern, Meredith wondered whether the rumors about Carruthers doing service work during his holidays were actually true. Could it be that Carruthers had taught himself certain service tasks, not because he was forced to by his parents, but because he wanted to be able to care appropriately for anyone under his protection if no servant was available to carry out his commands? 

"Why didn't your liege-master come to your aid?" 

Startled, Meredith jumped in place. "Sir?" 

"I'd gone to my rooms to have my servant wash me when I heard Fletcher. If I could hear his voice all the way up in the first-rankers' section of the Second House, your liege-master certainly must have heard him, even if he was with Rudd. Why didn't he come to your aid, when he heard Fletcher bullying you?" 

"He—" Meredith's throat closed, and he had to try again. "Master Rudd doesn't like him to interrupt his liege-service, sir. And Master Pembroke is very faithful to his liege-master." 

"I see." Carruthers's voice was as flat as it had been when he had spoken those same words some time before. "Then this isn't the first time this has happened?" 

Meredith bit his lip, not knowing how to answer without disloyalty to Pembroke. 

"I see." Carruthers's voice was very soft this time, so much so that Meredith glanced up at him to see what his expression held. He could not read what lay in the Head's face. As Meredith watched, Carruthers knelt down beside the bench in order to be closer to the forearm he was bandaging. 

Meredith wondered how it was that Carruthers could make the act of kneeling look so masterful. Perhaps it had something to do with the care he was taking in bandaging Meredith's arm. Each time he reversed the direction of the spiral, in order to keep the bandage evenly placed along the curve of Meredith's arm, he put as much care into his work as though he were a captain mending his own beloved boat. 

"Is it true about Rudd?" 

"Sir?" Meredith dragged his attention back from Carruthers's hands, firm upon Meredith's flesh. 

"Is it true, what Fletcher said – that you enjoy serving Rudd?" 

"No!" The word was out, far too loud, before Meredith could recall it. As Carruthers glanced up at him, Meredith added hastily, "He's not my liege-master, sir." 

Carruthers looked down at the bandage again. He had reached the cut and was being quite careful in placing the bandage over it. "So you must enjoy serving your liege-master." 

How could he say that he had never had the opportunity to serve Pembroke, except on the playing field, where any lad might serve him? "I . . . I'm sure I would, sir." 

Carruthers said nothing. Meredith, hearing his own words – hearing the confession in them – felt his skin turn hot. It was one of the few shames of his life that he had succeeded in hiding from the rest of the school: that he was of so little worth that even his liege-master did not call for his services. He had hoped beyond hope that he would be able to change that, before anyone guessed the truth. 

Without looking up, Carruthers said, "I enjoy it too." 

"Sir?" He sounded even more inane than usual, repeating the same word over and over. 

"Not serving. Being served." Carruthers's voice was very soft as he trailed his fingers over Meredith's arm, apparently checking that the bandage was set in place properly. 

Meredith did not know what to reply. Finally he said, "You must have lots of people who serve you." 

"No. Not the sort I'm seeking." Carruthers raised his gaze then, and looked straight into Meredith's eyes. 

Meredith struggled to look away. He failed. Carruthers's eyes – his ordinary eyes, neither handsome nor striking – held Meredith in place, as though Carruthers had set both his hands upon Meredith's cheeks. 

The Head said softly, "If you should ever want to come to my rooms on some evening, when your other duties are done for the day, I could arrange for our enjoyment to be mutual." 

He struggled to speak, struggled to breathe. Finally he managed to squeak out a single word: "Sir?" 

"On the other hand," said Carruthers, as though he had not spoken, "if you would prefer not to, that's fine too. I'll still do whatever I can to protect you." 

Carruthers looked down at Meredith's arm, and with a deft flick of his hands he tied the final knot in the bandage. Then he reached over for the scissors and cut the loose end of the bandage. When he spoke again, it was in an ordinary tone. "That's done. I have to go now; I'm due for a meeting of my House's prefects' council. When you're ready to return to your House, Arthurs will escort you." His eyes rose to meet Meredith's once more. On his lips was the faintest of smiles. 

Meredith said then the only words he could think to say, though they seemed manifestly inadequate for the occasion: "Yes, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

By the time Meredith arrived back at the Third House, classes had let out. The hallways were thronged with second- and third-rankers tossing schoolbooks back and forth to one another, bargaining over sweets, and scrummaging over bits of wadded-up paper. Meredith slid between them, unnoticed or at least unnoted, turning over in his mind the conversation with Carruthers. 

"Meredith!" It was Davenham, looking up from where he and some fellow second-rankers were setting up old bannister rails for an impromptu match of picket. "Pembroke is looking for you. He says you're to meet him in the prefects' study. —Not that way, bloody bumblers. You'll let the enemy through for sure if your picket-line is that loose." 

"Well, if your bowling is as poor as it always is . . ." 

The friendly argument rolled on, a mere background to the thumps, bangs, calls, cries, and laughter that filled the House. A first-former, bearing the earnest expression always held by students in their initial term at Narrows, skidded to a halt in the corridor and said, to nobody in particular, "Master Nevins says can you please keep it down, he's studying, and you're too loud, and I'm to make sure you stay quiet—" 

Nobody paid any attention to the fag. House Master Nevins sent this message daily, and daily he refused to emerge from his study in order to enforce his order. Everyone in the House knew that, if the volume reached the point where it disturbed their Head Prefect, they'd be forced to quiet themselves. Otherwise, there was no point in worrying, for the other House Masters kept strictly to their own Houses, and the rest of the school masters lived in the Old Building, which also housed the chapel and lesson-rooms and dining hall. 

True, Carruthers had a tendency to come knocking at their door when their noise irritated him, but the knowledge that they had been disturbing the Second House was, if anything, incentive for the Third House students to grow louder. 

The students in the Fourth through Twelfth Houses were easygoing on the matter of noise, probably because they had learned the uselessness of complaining to Rudd. As for the First House, its rooms lay empty. Five tri-centuries had passed since any First Landsteader had applied for entrance to the school. 

His mind still cluttered with thoughts of Carruthers, Meredith made his way through the crowd, heading in the direction of the inner circle. The Second House's territory – like that of all the other Houses – was a slice in the round pie of the New Building. In the common area of the inner circle – the circular courtyard at the center of the circular building – fist-fights between rival House members were so frequent that entering the inner circle was like entering a war zone. Overlooking the inner circle were the rooms of the House Master and the first-ranked students; the next room out, the largest in the Third House, was the prefects' study, where the prefects studied and chatted and invited in guests whom they deigned to be worthy to enter their abode. 

Pembroke was frequently to be found there. He had fagged for Rudd when he initially arrived at school as a first-former; Rudd had been in third form at that time. Now, as a fifth-former, Pembroke was welcomed to the study as a friend of Rudd's. The place of second-ranked masters in the school hierarchy was always a delicate one, and Rudd could easily have decided to emphasize Pembroke's service to him. Instead, Rudd had Pembroke offer his liegeman's service only within Rudd's bedroom, with the doors shut; outside the bedroom, Pembroke was a good friend of Rudd's and was therefore treated by other students as though he were a first-ranked master himself. 

So it was not until Meredith was actually in the midst of knocking on the prefects' door that it occurred to him to wonder why Pembroke had summoned him to the prefects' study rather than to his own room. 

He froze, like a third back who is unexpectedly passed the ball when two seconds are left on the clock. A voice shouted for him to enter; it was Rudd's. With a shaking hand, Meredith opened the door. 

The prefects' study was a quadrilateral that curved to fit between the boundaries of the curving corridors outside. In the shorter section of the curve, closest to the first-rankers' rooms, was a curved dais with a table on it, usually used as a place for the prefects to study. Now the prefects were all sitting in a row, facing the doorway in which Meredith stood. On the table in front of them, gleaming black under the lamplight, lay two canes. 

"Close the door," ordered Rudd, sitting in the middle of the table, directly opposite the canes. On either side of him were the remaining four first-ranked masters of the House – plus Johnstone, a seventh-form second-ranker, who served as a prefect because the school regulations required six prefects in every House. 

Meredith, now shaking from head to foot, turned to close the door. As he did so, he noticed that Pembroke was standing inconspicuously at the far end of the room. Standing, not sitting, which meant that he was in trouble too. Meredith had a moment to feel fierce regret for that before fear for his own fate overwhelmed him again. 

As Fletcher had said, though, Meredith did know proper protocol, even in moments of crisis. Ignoring the prefects, he walked over to Pembroke and said, "You wished to see me, master?" 

"Yes." Pembroke's voice was as steady as ever. "Master Rudd and the other prefects have some questions for you." 

"Yes, sir," he whispered and backed away. 

There was a small circle painted in the middle of the floor where students brought before the prefects' council were supposed to stand. He stood there, body rigid, facing Rudd and the others. Rudd was writing on a bit of scratch paper, a typical conceit. He said, without looking up, "You are Meredith?" 

"Yes, sir," he replied, resisting the impulse to add, "I was when you had me fag for you this morning." 

" _Just_ Meredith? No last name?" 

Several of the prefects covered their mouths to hide smiles. Fletcher openly grinned. Through gritted teeth, Meredith said, "Yes, sir." 

"Hmm." Rudd looked up finally. In Meredith's nightmares, he always looked like a Vovimian demon who served Hell, but in reality he had a plain, unassuming face, a bit freckled because he was one of the House's batsmen and therefore spent many hours in the sun during summer term. "Master Fletcher" – Rudd pointed his pen, as though Meredith might have forgotten who Fletcher was – "tells me that you obeyed an order by Master Carruthers this afternoon to enter his House." 

Meredith's stomach dropped out. Rudd was gazing at him through narrowed eyes, while Fletcher was playing with Rudd's dagger on the table. The prefects had changed into their formal clothes, as they always did during serious disciplinary hearings, which was why Rudd had come symbolically armed. Fletcher, Rudd's cousin and next in line for the heirship, was the only student there who would dare to touch the dagger worn by the heir to the Third Landstead's High Mastership. 

"Well?" said Rudd, his voice sharper this time. "Speak up, Meredith." 

"I—" He had to swallow before he could speak again. "I thought he was inviting me, not ordering me." 

"Oh, I _see_." Rudd leaned back in his chair. "The Head of the Second House _invited_ you to enter his House, and so of course you took him up on his invitation." 

"Meredith." Edwards, a serious-minded first-ranker from the northeastern end of the Third Landstead, leaned forward. "Are you aware that, in order to enter the territory of other Houses of this school, you need the permission of the Head of whatever House you're entering _and_ the permission of your own liege-master?" 

"Yes, sir," he whispered. 

"Speak up, man," said Rudd with irritation. 

"Yes, sir!" He was too loud this time; Johnstone winced, while Fletcher let out a guffaw. 

"Pembroke." Rudd turned his attention to the second-ranked master standing at the end of the room. "Did Meredith apply to you for permission to enter the Second House?" 

"I regret to say that he did not, master." As always, Pembroke was carefully formal when called upon to respond to his liege-master in formal situations. 

"When did this take place?" Rudd asked Fletcher. 

"Two-thirds of an hour ago," Fletcher replied. 

"Well, then, Pembroke couldn't have known anything about this; he was with me at the time," Rudd declared flatly. "Meredith, why didn't you apply for permission?" 

He was stuck then, trying to figure out the correct way to say, "Because you would have torn me into a dozen pieces if I'd interrupted you while you were with Pembroke." The prefects waited, Fletcher tapping the dagger hilt impatiently on the table. 

Pembroke coughed softly. "Master, may I say a word?" 

Rudd waved his hand in the general direction of Pembroke. 

"Thank you, master. If I may, I would like to suggest that Master Meredith may not have sought me out because he did not wish to disturb you." 

"Is that true, Meredith?" asked Edwards. 

"Yes, sir," he replied with relief. 

"I see." Rudd scribbled something on his paper, probably a note about the previous term's picket matches. "So you didn't want to disturb me. I assume, then, that you told Carruthers, 'I cannot enter your House without permission from my liege-master'?" 

A small space of silence followed before Meredith said in a low voice, "No, sir." 

"Did you even _think_ of waiting to get your liege-master's permission?" Rudd persisted. 

Meredith bit his lip, saying nothing. He turned his head in time to see Pembroke close his eyes, emitting a sigh. Meredith felt another sharp stab of regret. 

"I say we beat him for being a booby," concluded Edwards. 

"I agree, sir," put in Johnstone. "We can't have members of this House skipping off to other Houses whenever they feel like it. It's an attack on House loyalty." 

There was a general murmur of agreement. Rudd said, "Well, as I see it, Pembroke isn't at fault in this matter – are we all agreed on that? . . . Pembroke, thanks for coming by. Do you have anything more to say on your liegeman's behalf?" 

"No, master." Pembroke did not so much as glance in Meredith's direction as he spoke. "I have nothing more to say." 

He left the room without looking at Meredith again. Meredith felt a weight grow in him that had nothing to do with the coming beating. 

"Right," said Rudd, walking round to the front of the table and picking up one of the canes, "let's get this over with before tea. Meredith, bend over there." 

"Let's make him take down his trousers too," suggested Fletcher as he picked up the other cane. 

"Bloody blades, Fletcher, this isn't an orgy." Rudd sounded annoyed, as he always did when asked to share his fags. "Save that sort of thing for your own fag. Johnstone, it's your turn first." He held out the cane. 

Six prefects, two strokes each. The first five prefects left the room after their strokes were finished, no doubt because they knew Rudd well enough to guess why he had chosen to go last. After the twelfth stroke, Meredith continued to bend motionless over the table, his face buried in his arms to stifle any sounds. If he made any noise, Rudd would give him extra strokes, just for being a blasted nuisance. 

"You _are_ a little mutt, aren't you?" Rudd said, almost amiably. "What did you do, tot up in your mind the acts you could do that would annoy me most? Take down your trousers." 

Meredith straightened up, fumbled with his belt, pulled down his trousers, and leaned over again. The autumn air was cool, but his bottom still felt hot from the twelve previous strokes. 

There were six more cane-strokes, this time on the table leg; Rudd liked to lash the furniture first with his promised strokes, in order to build his victims' fear. Then came six cane-strokes on Meredith's bare flesh, which left Meredith sobbing. He barely had the energy to flinch when Rudd pulled back his cheeks. 

The rape was short. It always was; Rudd had little staying power. It was never the rape that was the worst; it was the words that accompanied it. 

"—You bloody well belong to me" – _stroke_ – "Pembroke gave you to me" – _stroke_ – "you belong to me, not Carruthers" – _stroke_ – "not to any other master" – _stroke_ – "don't care if your mother decided to whore herself" – _stroke_ – "you fag only for me, you _bastard-of-a-slave_!" 

Then it was over. Meredith, sobbing uncontrollably into his arms, barely reacted as Rudd slapped his bottom and said cheerfully, "Sweet blood, what a fucking mess you are. I don't know why I bother with you. Go get yourself cleaned up. No tea or supper for you today; I want you cleaning my bedroom till you can lick the floor with your tongue. Oh, and tell Davenham I'll want your services overnight; he can lock up the third-rankers' dormitory without you." 

"Yes, sir," he managed to croak out. 

Rudd slapped him again. "You mean 'Yes, master.'" 

Meredith didn't reply. It was the single point in his lost honor that he refused to cede: he would not call Rudd "master," for Rudd was not his true liege-master. Rudd, laughing, didn't press the matter. Meredith's indeterminate rank was a matter of amusement to him, nothing more. 

Which, if Meredith thought about it, pretty much defined his role at Narrows School. 

o—o—o

Hungry, exhausted, and sore, Meredith scrambled his way up the crumbling stones of the island's ancient lamphouse. 

The lamphouse, which was located on an extension of the school grounds, was off-limits to students because it was both historic and falling to pieces. Of course, this made it a favorite place for the students to climb for dares. The lamphouse was far enough away from the school buildings – at the tip of Richland Point, the peninsula where Narrows School stood – that students could not easily be detected there, and the fence around it was child's play to squeeze through, especially if you were a footer third back who regularly squeezed through the fences behind the goalposts on the playing field. 

Nobody was at the lamphouse now; all of the students were at supper. Meredith, having finished cleaning Rudd's floor with vigor – he would not put it past Rudd to make him actually lick the floor to test its cleanliness – had found himself with an hour to spare before Rudd would be likely to return to his room. So Meredith had come as far away from Rudd as he could without a pass to allow him beyond the school gates. 

The staircase leading to the top of the lamphouse was long since crumbled away; the only manner in which to reach the top was by scrambling up the inside walls of the now-hollow lamphouse. The task required a good head for heights, knowledge of cliff-climbing, and not a little courage. Meredith – who had learned as a child to scramble atop a lamphouse roof to clean off bird-droppings – had the knowledge to climb, while he was blessed with a good head for heights. As for courage . . . He tried not to think about that. Most of the students, he knew, scorned him, not so much because of his birth and ambiguous rank, but because he was a blatant coward. Any time he was bullied, he would lower his eyes and act subservient. Little wonder that Pembroke avoided his company. 

He pulled himself up through the hole to the top of the lamphouse and panted for a moment, feeling the evening breeze brush across his skin. He had wondered sometimes whether the other students would regard him as a sneak or as brave if he went to the Head Master and told him that Rudd was forcing Meredith to serve him sexually. It was an issue that rarely arose in the school. Most fags were liegemen to the students they fagged for; they were already planning to pledge their liegeman's service to their liege-masters once they reached journeyman age in their seventeenth sun-circuit. The Head Master, with admirable frequency, reminded the student liege-masters that they must not require sexual service from their liegemen until after the exchange of oaths at the confirmation of the liegeman's journeyman status. The students just as regularly ignored the Head Master's words. Most liegemen, whether fags or not, were eager to begin their service to their liege-masters, having been raised since young children to anticipate that day. And most liegemen who were near the age of journeymanship were unwilling to confine their service to such tedious tasks as cleaning plates for their liege-masters. Bed-service, nearly everyone agreed, was far more fun. 

Meredith walked slowly across the lamphouse roof, avoiding the bad patches where gaps gaped between the stones. His thoughts were elsewhere. Only liegemen were required to offer a liegeman's service, as bed-service was euphemistically called, and they were only required to do so because they had chosen their liege-masters. Rudd was not Meredith's liege-master; nor had Meredith been given a choice whether to serve him sexually. Indeed, it was hard to think of that which Rudd required in terms of service as all; the Head simply took what he wanted from Meredith, without regard for any pain his fag was undergoing. Even Meredith, who held the very practical viewpoint that eight out of nine tasks that liegemen undertook were likely to be dull and difficult, knew that Rudd was going far beyond the behavior that a liege-master was supposed to show toward his liegeman, much less toward his liegeman's liegeman. 

Meredith leaned upon the stone baluster of the lamphouse, looking down at the reeds below, swaying in the current of the Bay waters. His thoughts were no longer on Rudd but on Pembroke. If it was wrong for Meredith to be forced to serve Rudd in bed, it was even more wrong for Pembroke to have given Meredith over to Rudd. Going to the Head Master would mean betraying his liege-master, and despite everything, Meredith could not do that. He could only hope that, in some way, he could prove himself worthy enough as a liegeman that Pembroke would grow interested in him again and take him back from Rudd. Perhaps, he thought as he flicked a pebble off the baluster and watched it fall, he need only show further diligence on the playing field. 

He turned his back on the baluster and lifted his eyes. From where he stood, staring north toward the head of the Bay, he faced most of the Dozen Landsteads; only the Fourth and Fifth Landsteads lay east and southeast of him. This area, near the southern end of the Dozen Landsteads, was where the first masters of the landsteads had settled and had eventually allied themselves in order to fight off surrounding enemies. Gradually, from this area on both sides of the Bay, the landsteads had spread northward. The early masters, anticipating this growth, had carefully required that the amount of land in each new landstead be roughly equal to those of existing landsteads. Only the First Landstead had grown greedy – so greedy that it had broken from the alliance. 

From where Meredith stood, he could see a thin, white line upon the horizon, a few miles inland of the Bay coast of the Western Shore of the Dozen Landsteads: a great wall, the height of many men, that separated the upper landsteads from their western and northwestern neighbors on or near the east coast of the continent: the First Landstead, the Queendom of Yclau, the Magisterial Republic of Mip, and the Kingdom of Vovim. There, beyond the wall that had been jointly built by all of the upper landsteads, was where the future lay. The upper landsteads were frozen in the past. 

Meredith looked down at the balustrade again. Generations of students had carved their names into it. "Everard of the 10th, 1378." That was one of the earliest students, writing at a time when Narrows School had first been founded, ostensibly as a communal project by the High Masters of all the landsteads, but in actuality as a way to prevent heresy, for that had been the tri-century when the Reformed Traditionalists, proclaiming that High Master Celadon was an incarnation of Remigeus, had broken away from the Traditionalists, who believed that it was blasphemous to claim that the founder of the Dozen Landsteads' law system had been reborn as a High Master who had so little regard for the proper order of ranking. 

"Kenrick of the 2nd, 1482." By the fifteenth tri-century, the controversy had settled down enough that Reformed Traditionalist boys were now attending Narrows School. Kenrick was Narrows School's most famous graduate: a man who had helped High Master Fernao of the Second Landstead pen the act that emancipated the Dozen Landsteads' slaves, turning them into free servants. Kenrick was from the Second Landstead but proudly claimed heirship of the First Landstead too, since one of his ancestors had been the younger brother of the mistress whom the First Landsteaders proclaimed as their High Mistress at the time they broke away from the upper landsteads. The First Landstead paid no attention to Kenrick's claim of heirship. By the fifteenth tri-century, the First Landstead had turned itself into the Queendom of Yclau, which was rapidly expanding into an empire. Most of the Yclau preferred not to speak of their mean origins as a mere landstead among many landsteads. 

"Hodgkin, 1798." A student of no note, whose landstead he had forgotten to mention. By this time, Yclau had forgotten its origins as well; it no longer spoke of masters and servants but of lords and commoners. Yclau had broken so thoroughly with its past that many of its words and customs were now adopted from its northwestern neighbor, the Kingdom of Vovim, with which it quarrelled incessantly. The upper landsteaders, in a dignified manner, refused to pay attention to the squabbles to the west and north of them. They were too busy engaging in their own squabbles, for this was the tri-century when the Second and Third Landsteads began their long battle over fishing rights on the Bay. 

"Vaughan of the 9th, 1885." There weren't many signatures from the nineteenth tri-century; Narrows School had entered into a decline, for all of the excitement now clearly existed in the nations surrounding the Dozen Landsteads. Young Landsteaders abandoned their Houses in order to resettle in Yclau, Vovim, and the new nation of Mip. These were the years when Yclau workers founded the world's first Commoners' Guild and demanded their rights, when Vovim became renowned around the world for its arts, when Mip became the trading center of the Midcoast nations. The Dozen Landsteads, with their ancient system of masters, liegemen, and servants, were ignored by nearly everyone. 

But then . . . 

"Forbes of the 8th, 1896 Fallow." The students were now distinguishing between tri-years and what the citizens of the other Midcoast nations called years, as a way of making clear the distinctive calendar system used within the Dozen Landsteads, which was shared by no other country in the world. It was at Narrows School that pride in the Landsteader traditions had first revived itself. Everywhere else in the Midcoast nations, the loyalties between masters, liegemen, and servants had broken down, turning into mercenary economic arrangements between the different classes. But in the Dozen Landsteads, a new generation was coming to realize that the landsteads had something special to offer that no other nation in the world had preserved. Landsteaders whose parents had emigrated returned; citizens of the Yclau territory that had formed the original boundaries of the First Landstead began to clamor for independence from the queendom that had strayed so far from its origins. For a time, it had seemed that the Alliance of the Dozen Landsteads would regain its original role as the leader among the Midcoast nations. 

"Betteridge of the 6th, 1912 Barley. 1912 forever, the High Masters say." 

For a long while, Meredith traced the words with his finger, half amused, half sorrowful. The student who had written this defiant statement had spoken no more than the truth. After the crushing effects of the Tri-National War upon the Dozen Landsteads at the turn of the tri-century, the upper landsteads had drawn inward, like a kicked puppy trying to protect its belly. Landsteaders had grown distrustful of their neighbors, seeing them as a threat. Had not the tri-nations of Yclau, Vovim, and Mip lured away many of the Dozen Landsteads' brightest youths? Had not the tri-nations set out to destroy the bonds between liege-masters and their liegemen? Had not the tri-nations abandoned the entire concept of rank as it applied to protection and service, leaving lords to exploit the commoners, while commoners showed shrill disregard for received wisdom from their lords? The tri-nations were a threat to everything that the Dozen Landsteads held dear. And so the Landsteaders had begun to build their wall. 

Then came 1912 Barley, with the biggest threat of all. Yclau's Queen spoke of eventually freeing the territory that had been the First Landstead. The First Landsteaders spoke of allying themselves once more with the upper landsteads – for alone of all of Yclau's territories, the First Landstead still stubbornly adhered to the master/liegeman/servant system. 

The upper landsteaders were appalled. Allow the First Landstead back into the alliance, with the First Landstead's adulterated culture, half Yclau, half Landsteader? It would be the beginning of the end for the Dozen Landsteads. They would be destroyed by the creeping cultural and technological imperialism of their more powerful neighbors. 

The upper landsteads slammed their doors shut. The Embargo Act of 1912 forbade nearly all foreign imports of technology or arts, most especially literature. The act also strongly limited the amount of technological and cultural change that could take place within the Dozen Landsteads. Immigration to the Dozen Landsteads was slowed, while emigration from the Dozen Landsteads became virtually impossible. Even travel to and from foreign lands was severely restricted. Radios and other devices that might contaminate the Dozen Landsteads with foreign influences became contraband material. 

The High Masters, wisely, did not content themselves with negative measures. They pushed forward a second revival of national patriotism – easy enough to do in the years following the Tri-National War. Schools such as Narrows encouraged their students to feel pride for the Dozen Landsteads' traditions: national pride, landstead pride, and House pride. For the first time, children and youths were tattooed with their ranks and were taught that they should glory in their participation in the master/liegeman/servant system. Egalitarianism, which had made some progress in the Dozen Landsteads, was now almost universally sneered upon, since that movement had begun in Yclau. The First Landstead was firmly told that it was not, and never would be, part of the Dozen Landsteads. 

Meredith, watching the far-away jet-stream of a First Landstead car that was skimming the air just above the border wall, thought to himself that, of all the people he pitied in this tale of the Dozen Landsteads' efforts to stop time, he pitied most the First Landsteaders. From what he had heard, the First Landsteaders still desperately wanted to be part of the alliance; they still took pride in the fact that they followed the ancient master/liegeman/servant system, tracked time through the ancient tri-year calendar, and used the ternary numbering system and alphabet that only Landsteaders used. The fact that they also sped around in jet-cars and lived in domed dwellings amidst the clouds did not change their cultural heritage. They were what the Dozen Landsteads could have become, if the upper landsteads had not screeched their progress to a halt in 1912. It was 1962 Clover now in the Dozen Landsteads, but life in the upper landsteads was no different than it had been in 1912 Barley. 

In one way, Meredith thought miserably, it was worse. He looked down at the signature he had been tracing over and over with his finger during the past minute: "Hooper of the 3rd, 1956 Clover." 

Meredith's father had never attended Narrows School. He had been accepted as a student when he became a master at age sixteen and had proudly carved his name at the lamphouse to mark that fact. But before he was able to win the scholarship he needed to pay his fees, the Act of Celadon and Brun had been revoked. 

That revocation had been the crowning achievement for the Traditionalists, who had always contended that servants should not become masters except through rebirth. But the revocation had also been supported by most Reformed Traditionalists, who mumbled vague words about the need to keep pure the master/liegeman/servant system, and how too many servants were taking advantage of the act in order to adopt roles of mastership for which they were ill-suited. 

And so the act had been revoked, and Narrows School, which had become as conservative as the rest of the nation, told the former servant named Master Hooper that he was not welcome within their walls. 

Meredith covered his face with his hands. He remembered the tremendous joy and pride that his father had shown on the day that Narrows School – relenting from its hard-heartedness under the influence of its generous new Head Master – had sent word that Meredith would be permitted to enter the hallowed grounds and become a student there. His father, characteristically, had not attributed the decision to his own impassioned pleas to the school, but to Meredith's merits. "They can see that you are a true master!" he had exclaimed, his eyes shining as he smiled at his ten-year-old son. "They can see that you are as much a master as any of the other boys!" 

Meredith fished his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and spent a minute blowing his nose. He was trying not to think of what his father would have thought of him if he had watched how Meredith had acted on this day: allowing himself to become the victim of bullies, compliantly following the wishes of the Head of a rival House, permitting an abusive master to take advantage of him. He examined the events again, trying, with all his might, to see what his father saw in him. All he could see was himself, kneeling down to scrub Rudd's floor. 

Stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, he forced himself to look beyond the balustrade to the view that lay before him. 

Over the waters lay the reflection of the red sun, setting behind the Western Shore. The waters were peaceful. It was late in the season for crabbing and early for oystering; only a few pleasure boats grazed the water as they made their slow way toward the horizon. 

To the east of him, on the other side of Hoopers Island, he could see Honga River, which led to the creek that led to the manor of the House of Mollusc, one of the few heirship Houses that still existed in its original location. Of course, the manor no longer consisted of an ancient atrium; nor was it surrounded any more by solid fortifications from the middle tri-centuries, when the Third Landsteaders had required protection from the Second Landstead attackers. At one time, the House of Mollusc's manor had looked very much like the Ninth Landstead's House of Government; the latter had been a place of pilgrimage for many tri-centuries, since its west tower had been built under the supervision of High Master Celadon. But that castle had been destroyed during the gunpowder wars between the Ninth and Tenth Landsteads during the sixteenth tri-century. Most of the other Houses that supplied heirs to the High Masterships of their landsteads had moved further inland, away from the water. On the Eastern Shore, only the House of Mollusc, whose House Masters always rose to the rank of High Master of the Third Landstead, remained in this ancient heart of the Dozen Landsteads. 

Meredith turned his view toward the northwest, trying to envision the cove setting of the House of His Master's Kindness, the heirship House of the Second Landstead. That House's manor was built atop a line of cliffs that could be seen from Narrows School on a clear day, but the cove was always hidden behind a peninsula where another lamphouse stood guard. Meredith had often wondered what Carruthers's House manor looked like. All he knew was that it had been built in the eighteenth tri-century to replace an older manor. Pembroke had once taken Meredith along with him when he travelled on his father's boat; perhaps, if that happened again, Meredith could persuade Pembroke's father to sail his boat far enough west across the Bay that Meredith could have a chance to catch a glimpse of the House of His Master's Kindness— 

Or perhaps not. It seemed all too likely that, if a tonger boat came within sight of the House of His Master's Kindness, the dredgers who worked for Carruthers's father would open fire. 

"Of course he did! What do you expect? He's a dredger." 

This remark, intruding so neatly into Meredith's thoughts, caused him to blink before he realized that the voice came from below the lamphouse. He peered cautiously down. 

Two students were making their slow way along the shoreline, whacking at the reeds with sticks as they went. They both wore Second House caps, but they must have won them from playing picket, for Meredith didn't recognize them. The older of the two, who had spoken before, said, "It's the best rag he's ever done. I just about burst out in laughter when I saw him luring his prize into our House." 

"And he took him into the changing room?" the younger student said eagerly. "What do you suppose he did to him there?" 

"Oh, don't be coarse," the older student said scornfully. "He's not Rudd; he wouldn't throw a fag onto the floor and take his pleasure on him, then and there. I expect that he's working his way up to that. Hinting that he's a better master to fag for than Rudd – that sort of thing. It'll be a long, ripping rag; you can bet on that." 

"Rudd's sure to find out," the younger student argued, pausing to skip a stone along the water's surface. 

"Oh, he already has; he had Meredith before his prefects' council this evening, I heard. If it were any other fag, that would be the end of it. But . . . Well, we're talking about Meredith. He doesn't know how to say no when a master tells him to do something. Just watch: I'll bet you that Master Carruthers finds a way to tempt Meredith into his bedroom. And once Meredith is there . . ." The older student let his voice trail off in a significant manner. 

"Rudd will explode from apoplexy when he finds out," the younger student said in a satisfied manner. "A pity about Meredith, though. I mean, he's pathetic, but it's not really his fault, is it? He was just born that way. And you know that Rudd will kill him once Master Carruthers reveals the rag—" He stopped abruptly, obviously just remembering that Rudd had the power to make this prediction literally true. 

"Oh, it's Meredith's own fault for coming to this school," the older boy said with scorn. "He should stay with his own kind rather than try to pretend that he's better than he is. I don't feel sorry for him at all. He's just a typical tonger, letting himself be shoved around." 

"And not even a tonger boat-master," the younger boy agreed. 

"Sweet blood, no," swore the older boy. "Do you know that he was cleaning Rudd's floor tonight? Rudd was bragging about it at tea. He wasn't even trying to keep his voice down." 

"The Head Master should send Rudd down," said the younger boy, his contempt turning to a new target. 

"The _High Masters_ should send Rudd down," the older boy said. "To think that he will be High Master to the Third Landstead some day . . ." 

"And we'll have Master Carruthers as our High Master," responded the younger boy cheerfully. "It's no contest. Rudd is a blockhead; Master Carruthers will be able to steal his fag right under his nose. Master Carruthers will even be able to make Meredith serve him in bed, I'll wager you." 

The older boy laughed. "I'm not taking that wager; the conclusion is foregone. But he won't 'make' Meredith do anything. The silly little duffer will offer himself up on the sacrificial plate – just wait and see." 

"I suppose he can't help it," said the younger boy, trying to insert a note of justice. "I mean, he was made for that sort of thing. He'd probably be a decent chap if he just stuck to his proper rank." 

"Oh, yes, he'd be a decent servant," the older boy agreed. "Speaking of which, what did you think of that sweet little thing who was serving us at table tonight? Did you see how her breasts jutted against her dress when she leaned over to put down my plate?" 

The younger boy laughed. "You'll get yourself in trouble if you don't watch it. Remember the Abuse of Power Act. . . ." 

Their voices faded in the distance. The sun had set; only a faint sheen of light fell upon its waters, from the watermen's houses along the shoreline of the island. Moving across to the other side of the lamphouse roof, Meredith stood for a while, his chin buried in his arms, his eyes on the horizon where the House of His Master's Kindness stood, hidden in the darkness. Then he turned, made his way round the long-dead fire-pit at the center of the lamphouse roof, and carefully climbed his way back down to the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

Autumn droned on. So did the school masters. 

"Calendar drill next. I am sure that even boys of _your_ intelligence can handle it." That was the mathematics master, forced, against his will, to teach a class in basic maths to a mixed-rank group of first-formers. 

" _Victis honor_ , as said Aurelia, a close contemporary of Remigeus. But if we compare her attitude with that of the Vovimian playwright Ogier—" That was the classics master, a newly appointed young man who was forever taking the opportunity to slip in daring references to foreign literature. 

Meredith tried to close his ears to both voices. He was sitting in a lesson-room in between those two other lesson-rooms, supposedly taking an exam on the constitutional foundations of mastery and service, though he had actually closed his exam book long ago and was now jotting down notes on scratch-paper about which birds frequented the school pond during the autumn. 

"One tri-year is made up of three sun-circuits: Barley, Clover, and Fallow. One sun-circuit is made up of three seasons: Spring, Summer, and Autumn. One season is made up of three months: End, Middle, and Beginning. One month is made up of three weeks . . ." 

The chorus of first-formers recited the obvious. In the other lesson-room, the daring classics master said, ". . . as we see in the tale of Mehetabel and Micah, two well-known characters in Vovimian literature, sadly neglected in our own nation, due to its insular rejection of the best in other nations. Mehetabel and Micah are the best-known examples of a type of drama known as 'the comedy of errors.' . . ." 

Silently predicting to himself that the classics master would last no more than a term before being sacked for his seditious lessons, Meredith turned his scratch-paper over and began listing the factors that might affect when the birds arrived at Hoopers Island, and why they chose to stop at the pond on the middle of the three islands that made up Hoopers Island. Beside him, his fellow lesson-mates sighed periodically as they attempted to wend their way through the exam questions. 

"Spring Waning, Spring Illness, Spring Dying, Spring Death, Spring Transformation, Spring Rebirth, Spring Childhood, Spring Youth, Spring Manhood, Summer Waning, Summer Illness, Summer Dying . . ." 

The tedious recital of the obvious was now taking the form of a student's recital of the weeks of the sun-circuit. The classics master said, ". . . causes Micah to believe that Mehetabel is seeking to spurn him, when in actual fact she is planning to ask him to marry her. In the next scene, Micah sights Mehetabel with her friend Thomasina, and in a rare literary reference to the forbidden relationship between women that is known in our nation as a 'particular friendship' . . ." 

Meredith revised his estimate of the classics master's time at the school; he now suspected that the master would be packing his bags by the end of Autumn Illness. He began sketching a clam, while nearby, the first-former said, "Summer Childhood, Summer Youth, Summer Manhood, Autumn Waning, Autumn Dying . . . Er, I mean Autumn Illness—" 

"Stop, stop, stop!" The mathematics master's way of coping with his own boredom was always to rage at his students. "You stupid little boy! Can you not even remember the name of the very week we're in? You'll take one hundred lines for that. What is your name?" 

"Lovelace minor, Master Trundle." 

"Lovelace minor? Who is your elder brother? Some sort of layabout, I've no doubt. Come up to this desk, boy – I'll make sure that your family has no more layabouts. Stick out your hand." 

"I'm a first-ranker, Master Trundle." The tone of the boy was without mockery, but all around the mathematics classroom, students giggled. The mathematics master – carried away as always by the zeal of his righteousness – had failed to notice two quite obvious signs of the boy's rank: the rank-mark tattooed to his wrist, and the fact that he had addressed his teacher as "Master Trundle." If Lovelace minor had been a second- or third-ranker, he would more likely have addressed the mathematics master as "sir." 

The mathematics master was suddenly silent. Like all of the school masters except the House Masters and Head Master, he was a second-ranker, and as a second-ranked master, he had no power to punish first-ranked masters, no matter how young or ill-educated. After a moment, during which the students' giggling continued, he said gruffly, "Then you will take your punishment from your House Master. I will spare you the Head Master." 

The giggling increased. Everyone knew that Master Trundle actually meant, "I will spare myself the humiliation of letting the Head Master know about this episode." 

"Yes, Master Trundle." Lovelace minor sounded relaxed, as well he might. He was from the Third House, and his elder brother, Lovelace major, was a skilled, energetic batter on the House's picket team, in the same manner that their father and grandfather had been. As far as the Third House was concerned, the family of Lovelace could do no wrong. In any case, a trip to the House Master's rooms would only result in the House Master giving an irritable lecture on how his studies should not be interrupted with unimportant matters. A trip to Rudd's rooms would have been far more dangerous. 

"Finished, Meredith?" 

Meredith jerked his head up at the sound of the soft voice. Absorbed as he was in the comic drama taking place in the mathematics lesson, he had failed to hear the Head Master's approach. "Yes, sir," he whispered, and showed his exam book. 

The Head Master read it carefully, his reading glasses perched on his nose, and then nodded in acknowledgment. "Well done. But put away that sketch; this is not a science lesson." 

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Meredith quickly stowed away his scratch-paper. Any other school master would have confiscated the offending notes and given Meredith lines to write out – perhaps even given Meredith five strokes on the hand for disobedience. But the Head Master – a first-ranker who answered only to the High Masters' council for his leadership of their school – never seemed to feel the need to show off his power against petty infringements of school rules. Now, disdaining even to look back to see that Meredith was acting as ordered, he strode up the aisle between the desks, pausing only to snatch up a forbidden crib that a student had failed to hide in time. "My rooms, after the lesson," he said sternly to the offender. 

"Yes, sir," said the offender bleakly. Under these circumstances, a trip to the Head Master's rooms could only mean a caning. 

The other students exchanged glances and then returned with renewed diligence to their exam books. There were no more sighs. Meredith, forbidden from opening any schoolbooks during exam time, stared out the window that overlooked the lawn and bushes in front of the school. Beyond it he could see the marsh-grass of Richland Point. A great blue heron rose from the marsh and soared in the direction of the Bay. 

". . . from which we can conclude that Mehetabel and Micah's troubles are the result of their own unwillingness to communicate their fears and longings to each other. This shows the high importance of communication, of which poetry is one example. The Yclau balladeer, Yeslin Bainbridge, once wrote . . ." 

The Head Master abruptly stopped in his tracks, looked round for a free student, and beckoned to Meredith. Meredith quickly hurried to the front of the room. 

Bending forward, the Head Master murmured, "Please convey my reminder to Master Tester that under no circumstances is Egalitarian literature to be taught in this school. Tell him that I will see him in my rooms at the end of the day." 

"Yes, sir," whispered Meredith, revising his predictions yet again. Tomorrow, he suspected, the classics lesson-room would be empty. As a Traditionalist institution, Narrows School barely tolerated references to Reformed Traditionalist beliefs. References to Egalitarianism were quite beyond the pale. 

He delivered the message to the classics master, who – poor, undiscerning man – seemed merely annoyed at the Head Master's words. "Oh, very well," he said, waving away Meredith. "Though that is taking a very narrow attitude in such matters. The importance of the Yclau balladeers to the world of literature—" 

"Master Tester, you might want to consider that the Head Master is in the adjoining lesson-room and can therefore hear every word you speak." This quiet comment came from a student sitting in the front row of the lesson-room. 

The literature master frowned. "Well, really, I do not need unsolicited advice from, from—" 

"Carruthers, Master Tester." Carruthers's gaze was steady upon his school master. 

The classics master – who, as it happened, was a citizen of the Second Landstead – seemed taken aback. "Ah. Yes, of course. But your own father—" 

"—would be happy to discuss Egalitarian literature with you at any time. I would be glad to send him a letter tonight, recommending your re-employment at a school of more advanced tastes in literature." Carruthers's tone was utterly bland as he conveyed his warning. 

The classics master blinked, trying to absorb this message. Meredith took the opportunity to make his exit. Carruthers had not looked in Meredith's direction, which was just as well, since Rudd sat two seats away from him in that lesson-room. 

Meredith returned to his own lesson-room to find that a couple of the third-ranked students were gathering up the exam books on the Head Master's behalf. He slipped into his seat, while in the next lesson-room, the bored mathematics master said, ". . . crowning glory and identifying first-ranked mark of our nation is our ternary system, which we use for our numbers, alphabet, heliograph color codes, calendar, logic, and even for simple messages such as 'stop,' 'caution,' and 'go.' The clear superiority of a base-three system over rival number systems demonstrates the manifest superiority of the Dozen Landsteads' native way of thinking over foreign heresies and—" 

"Sir, excuse me, sir, but don't we use tri-decades and tri-centuries, in the same way that the Mippites use decades and centuries in their nation's decimal system?" 

Before the mathematics master had the opportunity to quash this line of thought, another student cried, "Sir, oh please, sir, I need your help in understanding something. If the Dozen Landsteads remains untainted by foreign heresies like the ancient base-four system of numbering in Vovim, why is it, please, that the High Masters' council has always met for quarterlies rather than for thirdlies?" 

"Sir, sir!" This was Percy, usually quiet and well-behaved at lessons, but unable to resist the temptation to join into the ragging. "Oh, I _must_ know, sir! Is it true, as my eldest brother says, that the First Landsteaders use the ternary system also? And how can that be if, as you've told us in the past, the First Landstead isn't part of the Dozen Landsteads?" 

"Master Trundle." Lovelace minor's voice was silky smooth; he was obviously getting his own back for the earlier reprimand. "I find what you say most confusing, for I have it on good authority, from my father, who masters the foreign affairs office of our landstead, that all the computers of the world now use the ternary system. Would you care to explain how that can be, if the ternary system is 'the identifying first-ranked mark of our nation'?" 

The mathematics master strove vainly to restore order by means of logic – quite difficult to do, since he had driven himself into a box whereby he could not admit to his students that the computers owed their superior numbering system to the First Landsteaders, who had created the world's earliest computers. That would mean acknowledging that the First Landstead shared the same numbering heritage as the upper landsteads. The first-formers, their voices scrambling over each other like eager puppies, took advantage of the mathematics master's stammering replies to pelt him with questions at the top of their lungs. 

The Head Master, who had been skimming the exam books as they were handed to him, sighed as he glanced in the direction of the offending lesson-room. "Finnemore." 

"Yes, sir?" Finnemore looked up from where he was passing notes with a fellow second-ranker. 

"Averill Lovelace is your liege-master, am I correct?" 

"Yes, sir." Finnemore stiffened. A call for a student's liege-master usually meant that the Head Master was about to discipline the student for a particularly heinous infraction. 

"Kindly visit your liege-master next door and offer to him my reminder that I will be taking into consideration the behavior of first-ranked masters of the Third House when it comes time for me to consider who to appoint as the next Head Prefect of that House." 

There was light laughter from the Head Master's students, who had been listening to the chaos erupt next door. Finnemore, smiling, said, "Yes, sir. Any message for Master Trundle, sir?" 

"No," said the Head Master in a weary tone that suggested he had given many messages to the hapless mathematics master in the past, without success. "No message for my liegeman. Only for your liege-master." 

Finnemore departed, and a short time later, Lovelace minor's voice could be heard, sharply urging the second- and third-ranked students in his lesson-room to attend to their school master. The other first-ranked masters, taking their cue from this, rebuked the second- and third-rankers for the very ragging that the first-rankers had helped to instigate. 

Finnemore, glowing from the success of his mission, returned in time to seat himself as the Head Master said to his students, "A few of you are in need of extra tutoring, it appears." As most of the Lower Seventh students groaned, the Head Master added, "Let us review the fundamentals of constitutional law again by discussing a recent Act, enacted within your own lifetimes. Who can tell me what the Abuse of Power Act covers?" 

"Head Master, it permits masters to act as servants, and servants to act as masters, provided that their acting is done in private!" This triumphant shout came from Hobson, always ready with an answer, and always, invariably wrong. 

"No, Hobson," the Head Master replied patiently. "That clause is from the Act of Celadon and Brun, which was revoked around the time you were born. We will not be discussing that Act until next term. Anyone else?" 

The students exchanged looks. Nobody seemed particularly eager to venture an answer. Meredith, who could have recited every clause of the Abuse of Power Act in his sleep, was careful not to raise his hands. A know-everything student provided extra ammunition for bullies. 

Finally a student grasped his hands over his head, was called upon, and said, "The Abuse of Power Act, enacted in 1956 Clover, forbids a master from abusing his power over a lesser-ranked master or his power over a servant." 

"Correct, Sefton," said the Head Master. Then, as the student was sighing in relief, the Head Master added, "And what is the difference between a master and a servant?" 

Sefton remained silent, not wishing to answer what was evidently a trick question. Hobson, wishing to redeem himself, practically shouted, "A master masters and a servant serves!" 

"Correct, Hobson," the Head Master said, "though you should wait to be called upon. Now, tell me, what is the difference between a liegeman and a servant?" 

"Er . . ." Having realized that he had ventured out into waters too deep for him, Hobson gripped his pen uncertainly. "A liegeman is a master who serves a higher-ranked master?" 

"Correct." The Head Master gave Hobson the smile he reserved for slow students who tried their best. "What other differences are there between a liegeman and a servant? Anyone?" 

Hobson, relieved of the grilling chair, slumped back onto his bench with an audible sigh of relief. Several other students had their hands up now. 

"Gerant." The Head Master pointed. 

"Sir, the difference between a liegeman and a servant is that a servant does worse work than a liegeman." Gerant sounded smug as he cast a look of scorn at Hobson for his simple answer. 

The Head Master nodded. "You have served your liege-master in this school, I believe?" 

"Yes, sir," replied Gerant, who was now leaning back against the desk behind him in a nonchalant manner. Meredith carefully capped his ink bottle so that Gerant wouldn't spill it. "Master Naughton was in the sixth form when I arrived here. I fagged for him during my first three terms." 

"And what sort of service did you render him that a servant would not render?" 

Gerant's smug expression disappeared. Several of the students – who had remembered better than Gerant the Head Master's blithe manner of setting traps – had been nudging each other knowingly throughout Gerant's speech. Now they snickered outright. 

"Silence, please." The Head Master did not remove his gaze from Gerant. "Gerant, what is the answer? It is a simple enough question." 

Hobson buried his head in his arms to hide his smile. Gerant, after a couple of false starts, said, "Well, he didn't require me to empty his chamber-pot. He had a servant do that." 

"But that was his choice, not yours?" 

"Yes, sir," muttered Gerant, slumping in his chair. Then he straightened suddenly, as though stung by a jellyfish. "But I gave the orders to the servant!" 

"Good," said the Head Master. "So we see another distinction between a master and a servant. A liegeman, unlike a servant, can give orders to men and women below his rank." 

Sefton waved his hands wildly. Upon being called upon, said, "Sir, our House's majordomo, Ben, gives orders to the other servants. My father's liege-master says that Ben is really the one who runs the House, not him." 

The other students laughed. The Head Master, smiling, said, "It sometimes feels that way when one employs a good servant, doesn't it? But yes, you've made an important point: a servant, if he is of sufficient status in the household, can give orders to other servants. So." The Head Master's voice turned brisk. "We've established that, under certain circumstances, a master can serve, and that under certain circumstances, a servant can give orders. Can no one here tell me the difference between a liegeman and a servant?" 

The students looked at one another with blank looks. Meredith stared at his desk, tracing with his finger the markings of older students. Finally Hobson said, "My valet at home kneels to me." 

There were groans at this simple answer, but the Head Master said firmly, "Very good, Hobson. We are approaching the answer. Does he kneel on two knees or one?" 

"Two knees, sir." Hobson sounded bewildered. "Only liegemen kneel on one knee." 

"And does anyone know why a liegeman kneels on one—?" 

"Oh, sir!" Thus prompted, Sefton shot up his hands. "Sir, I know! The liegeman has taken a vow of allegiance." 

"Yes!" The Head Master slapped his hands down on his desk. "There we have it, young masters. A liegeman takes a vow of allegiance to be faithful to his liege-master until death. A servant makes no such vow; it is quite common for a servant to serve three or four masters before his death. And a master . . . Anyone? What is a master's duties toward his liegeman or his servant?" 

"Sir, a liege-master is required to protect his liegeman." That was Oates, a quiet Third Landsteader who was one of the best students in the Lower Seventh. "By law, a lesser-ranked master cannot fight against higher-ranked masters, so it is the liege-master's duty to protect and guide his liegeman. Normally, he will also offer employment to his liegeman, but that is a less important matter than the protection and guidance. A servant-master, on the other hand, is under no obligation to either protect or guide the servants he has employed. The servants have taken no oath of allegiance to him." 

The Head Master had been smiling as he listened to this speech. Now he said, "Are you planning to try for the Constitutional Law Prize this term, Oates?" 

Oates, taken off-guard, said, "Ah . . . no, sir, I'm not sure whether I'm good enough to . . ." 

"I think you should try," the Head Master said flatly, and then returned his attention to the rest of the class. "Oates has put the matter as well as I could. An oath of allegiance binds liege-master and liegeman together. Even masters who have not taken an oath of allegiance hold a special relationship with higher-ranked masters that cannot be found between a servant and master. The Abuse of Power Act recognizes this and applies especially heavy penalties against any master who abuses his power over a lesser-ranked master. A master who abuses his power against a servant may be penalized, but not in so strict a fashion, for he has no responsibilities toward his servants, other than to provide the servants with decent conditions of employment." 

"No sex," whispered Gerant, and the lads nearest to him sniggered. 

"Would you care to repeat that remark to the rest of us, Gerant?" said the Head Master. "Please raise your voice so that we can all hear you." 

Gerant, scarlet-faced, said, "Um . . . sir . . . the Abuse of Power Act forbids masters from requiring servants to serve them sexually." 

"And all of you who are laughing consider this to be an amusing matter?" The Head Master looked round at the appropriate students, who hung their heads. 

"Now, young masters." The Head Master leaned across his desk. "You are all of journeyman age now. You are all at least seventeen sun-circuits – some of you are close to your sixth tri-year. So I can speak openly with you about matters that apprentice-aged students normally learn about only in their catechismal classes." 

He gestured toward Davenham, who had received special permission to attend the class, since he would be leaving school when he reached journeyman age. Davenham failed to notice the gesture; he was busy scribbling down all that was said in the lesson. 

"Sex . . ." The Head Master leaned on the word, causing several of the students to gasp in shock. "Sex is a sacred trust, instituted to bind together husband and wife, in order that they might bring back to life, through their union, the souls of men and women who have died in the past. Each time a husband and wife make love, they may be drawing back the soul of a man or woman who has been held in affection by others in the past, and whose loss to this world has been mourned. They are giving that soul another chance at life, allowing the soul to join again the spiral of time, climbing upwards. There can be no greater human responsibility than this." 

There was a silence before O'Niel, who was of the Second Landstead, said, "Er, Head Master . . . Our High Master has never married. He says he doesn't intend to." 

The Head Master nodded. "Nor have I. Some masters have responsibilities too great to permit them the privilege of marriage. But all higher-ranked masters, without exception, take on a responsibility that permits them the option of binding themselves to another in a carnal manner. I refer, of course, to what is commonly known as liegeman's service – or in franker language, bed-service." 

Now the students of the Lower Seventh were still indeed, so much so that the sound of Master Trundle's voice drifted into the lesson room: "Death comes to us three times a year, in the weeks of Spring Death, Summer Death, and Autumn Death. Yet death, which is represented by the color red, is ever-present throughout the calendar cycle, for the heliograph signal of red, representing one of the numerals of the ternary system, can be seen over and over again in the letters of the heliograph alphabet . . ." 

"Some of you," said the Head Master, looking at the second-ranked masters in the front rows of the classroom, "are liege-masters, or will be in the future. All of you, being second- and third-ranked journeymen, are liegemen. Not all of you will be required to offer bed-service. Bed-service, as you know, is intended to provide liege-masters with a form of release before marriage, in order that they not seek out illegitimate bonds – yes, I am referring to the prostitution of women, Gerant." He looked sternly at Gerant, who had been on the point of enlightening his bench-mate through a whisper. "Bed-service therefore ends at the time of marriage. Some liege-masters marry young, in which case it would be inappropriate for them to ever receive bed-service from their liegemen. Other liege-masters, for their own reasons, prefer not to receive bed-service, or they have so many liegemen that it would be impossible for them to accommodate all of their liegemen's offers of service . . . however much some of them might want that." The Head Master's gaze landed on Baxter, and his mouth twitched. 

The students were startled into laughter. Baxter, a popular lad who was notorious for acquiring new liegemen at the rate of one per term, laughed with the rest. The Head Master, openly smiling now, said, "When I say that sex is sacred, I do not mean to suggest that it must be solemn. There is room for good-hearted play in bed-service. But note that, whether the service is offered by a wife or by a liegeman, in both cases the service is offered _willingly_. How is this willingness signified, Oates?" 

"By a vow, sir," said Oates. "The liegeman offers his oath of allegiance, and the wife offers her oath of marriage." 

"And in both cases, it must be stressed, the oath is public." The Head Master slammed his palms onto the table a second time. "The high law will not countenance hideaway affairs. It demands that any master who accepts sexual service be willing to make his pledge of protection to that person _in public_. No servant may be forced to serve a master in bed, because no servant makes an oath of allegiance—" 

"Except Celadon." 

Gerant's remark brought laughter to the room. Meredith, who was still tracing incisions on his desk, felt his cheeks burn. 

The Head Master looked at Gerant, so long that the laughter died down, to be replaced by uneasy looks. Finally the Head Master said, "Gerant, did you or did you not hear me say earlier that we would not be studying the Act of Celadon and Brun until next term?" 

Gerant hesitated before responding, "Yes, sir." 

"You will take five hundred lines. Deliver them to my rooms by week's end." 

"Yes, Head Master," Gerant murmured. 

The Head Master looked round to where the other students were exchanging whispers of dissatisfaction. He said slowly, "Since there appears to be such strong interest here in the Act of Celadon and Brun, it may be best for us to address that matter. The Act of Celadon and Brun, passed in 1317, permits what?" 

"A master and servant to exchange places," ventured Hobson. 

"No, that's not right," interjected Sefton. "It permits a master to act as a servant, or a servant to act as a master, provided that it's done in private." 

"Provided that it's done _without public scandal_ ," corrected Oates. "That's what the Act says. A master can privately tell his friends what he's doing; he just can't stand up in public and say, 'I act like a servant sometimes.'" 

"Who'd want to admit that?" Gerant wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

"Celadon—" began Oates. 

"Celadon was a High Master. If a High Master wants to amuse himself by playing he's a servant, who's going to question his right to do that? But if one of _us_ acted like a servant – well, I'd question whether that lad was properly ranked at birth." 

There were murmurs of agreement. Meredith cast a quick look at the Head Master, but he was leaning back in his chair, evidently preferring the students to voice their opinions fully. 

"What about Brun, though?" asked another student. "He was a slave – he didn't take any oath of allegiance to Celadon. Celadon shouldn't have forced him to serve in bed." 

Gerant shrugged. "What servant is going to pass up the chance to act as though he's a master?" 

"Not all servants want to be masters," Sefton argued. 

"But Brun did," inserted another student. "He said so publicly. That's why the Act of Celadon and Brun lets servants rise to the rank of master." 

"And lets masters be lowered to the rank of servants," Oates added. "Remember, Celadon wanted to be a servant as much as Brun wanted to be a master." 

"So why have the clause about letting servants act in private like masters, or masters act in private like servants?" rejoined the other student. "That just complicates things." 

"Everything is complicated about the Act," said yet another student. "How do you figure out whether a servant is really a master, or whether a master is really a servant? That's what the Act is supposed to be about – not about masters playing they're servants, or vice versa, but about a master actually _being_ a servant." 

"Or a servant actually being a master." 

"And the Act implies that they were given the wrong rank at birth." 

"But how could that be?" asked Hobson plaintively. 

"Exactly." The Head Master's soft remark cut into the discussion like a culling knife. "How could a man, born and raised as a master, be mismatched with his rank? Are we to say that the powers which transform us into new lives make a _mistake_? Are we really that arrogant?" 

Nobody wanted to reply directly to this question, though some of the Reformed Traditionalists in the room were exchanging looks. Finally one of them said, "Sir, that's not the only reason the Act was revoked. Even if you believe that a master or a servant may be given the wrong rank at birth, there's the practical problem that lots of servants who really are servants will demand to be re-ranked, simply in order to gain power they shouldn't have." 

The Head Master nodded. "Which is why four out of the five Reformed Traditionalists on the High Masters' council voted to revoke the Act of Celadon and Brun. The only abstaining vote on the council – an _abstaining_ vote, not a vote against the revocation – came from the High Master of the Ninth Landstead, no doubt out of respect to his ancestor, High Master Celadon. Celadon, I think we can all agree, was a strong and good High Master, and the revocation of his Act is not intended to be a smear against his memory." His eye lingered momentarily on Sefton, a Traditionalist who had been punished for tearing pictures of Celadon out of the school's library books. "But even the best High Masters may make mistakes. Celadon's error was in believing that a particular arrangement he had made with his own slave could be enacted throughout the Dozen Landsteads without bringing chaos to our ranking system. For tri-centuries, our courts were clogged with servants who were demanding changes in rank. For tri-centuries, masters forced their servants to serve them sexually, and then invoked the Act of Celadon and Brun when their shameful behavior was discovered, arguing that the servant had acted willingly. Since the servant had supposedly given his agreement in private, it was impossible to prove that the master was lying." The Head Master, his face now drawn on stern lines, said, "Young masters, perhaps it is indeed wise for us to consider the Act of Celadon and Brun at the same time as the Abuse of Power Act, for the latter was promulgated partly to eradicate the horrible sufferings caused by the former. The Abuse of Power Act says there will be no hideaway affairs, whether sexual or otherwise. None. If a master is unwilling to state publicly that he will protect and guide the liegeman who serves him, or if he is unwilling to publicly sign a servant's certificate of employment, then he has no right – _no right_ – to require that person to serve him. Privacy is no excuse for abuse!" 

The Head Master's voice seemed to echo in the lesson room. The students were silent, as they always were on the very rare occasions that the Head Master raised his voice. The Head Master looked round the room, reading acquiescence in the lads' faces. Then his gaze paused. "Meredith," he said, "you appear, from your expression, to have a question or comment." 

Meredith struggled to his feet. He could feel himself trembling. "Head Master," he said, "you stated earlier that a servant could not serve a master in the same way that a liegeman does, because the servant does not take an oath of allegiance. But what if he should?" 

The snickers broke out almost immediately. The Head Master, frowning, rapped his cane on the desk to silence the students. Then he said in a gentle voice, "Meredith, the servants you will own one day will not take an oath of allegiance to you because it is not in the nature of a servant to be faithful until death. As I said before, the typical servant flits from master to master, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower. There is no shame in this; indeed, the emancipation of the Dozen Landstead's slaves, in 1508, was intended to allow servants this opportunity. But this means that a servant, unlike a liegeman, cannot pledge himself to another man without doing violence to his very nature. Does that answer your question?" 

Meredith, biting his lip, nodded as he sat down. He was conscious of whispered discussions taking place throughout the lesson room. One of the lads who had been whispering clasped his hands above his head. "Head Master?" 

"Yes, Gerant?" The Head Master, who had been continuing to scrutinize Meredith, turned his attention to the other student. 

"Head Master, what about the servants who became ranked as masters before the Act of Celadon and Brun was revoked? Are they really masters?" 

Snickers broke out all over the lesson room. Meredith bowed his head over his desk, which caused the snickers to transform into open laughter. 

"Silence!" The Head Master rapped on his desk again. "Gerant, are you trying to increase the number of lines I gave you?" 

"Oh, no, sir!" Gerant's voice was studiedly innocent. "I'm not laughing. I just wondered what the status is of such men, in case I should happen to meet one of them." 

The students exchanged knowing smiles with one another. Baxter cleared his throat. "Ah, sir? My father only lets me attend this school on condition that I not be forced to accept Traditionalist doctrine." 

The Head Master nodded. "Then it would be best, Baxter, for you to seek an answer to this question from your father. The same is true for any other Reformed Traditionalist students here. However, this is a Traditionalist school, and Traditionalist beliefs are taught here. The answer to your question, Gerant, is that this school does not recognize such men as being masters. They have never been permitted to attend here as students. —However," he added as the whispers increased, "it is the position of this school that anyone who is raised as a master from the time of birth is indeed a master. Such a person is welcome in this school and will be accorded all respect due to a master. Does that answer your question, Gerant?" 

Gerant was saved from having to respond by the tolling of the chapel bell. The Head Master sighed, consulted his pocket watch, and said, "The bell is early today." 

This brought new snickers, for the bell was often early. The servant whose duty it was to ring the chapel bell at the end of each lesson accepted bribes from the students. 

Footsteps and conversation entered the corridor as the other school masters released their students. The Head Master sighed again. "Very well, we will finish this discussion tomorrow. —Meredith, I would like a word with you." 

As the other students sauntered toward the door of the lesson-room, Meredith hurriedly scooped up his schoolbooks; he had learned, long ago, the ill wisdom of leaving his belongings unattended. Then he rushed up to the Head Master, who had stood up from his desk and was stretching. "Yes, sir?" Meredith said. "Do you require my service?" 

The Head Master looked at him for a moment before saying gently, "No, Meredith, that is the wrong protocol. The protocol from a lesser master to a higher-ranked master who is not his liege-master is to ask whether the higher-ranked master has need of any aid." 

Meredith dipped his eyes; his face had turned warm. "I'm sorry, sir." 

"It can be difficult sometimes, remembering all the different types of protocol." The Head Master's voice remained gentle. "Perhaps you would care to attend the Service & Protocol class again this term, simply as a refresher?" 

He looked up quickly. "Yes, sir. I'd like that." 

"Well, then, I'll just need a note from your liege-master, excusing you from your duties to him during that time." 

Meredith barely managed to suppress a sigh. Pembroke, he knew, would consult with Rudd, and Rudd would say no, even though he never needed Meredith to fag for him when the Service & Protocol lesson was taking place, since, by long-standing school custom, that was the time when the Heads of Houses required service from their own liegemen. 

The voices in the corridor were growing louder now as all of the students were released from their lessons. Davenham had paused at the doorway to talk with Trafford, who had just emerged from the Upper Seventh lesson with Master Tester. Oates was standing silently nearby, while Jeffries hovered on the edge of the conversation. 

"Your lesson-work this term has been a shade more slipshod than in the past, I'm afraid," the Head Master remarked to Meredith. 

His work had been slipshod because Rudd left him little time in which to study. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll do my best to improve." 

"Is your liege-master continuing to supervise your studies?" The Head Master peered at Meredith over his spectacles. 

Meredith could see that Jeffries's attention had wandered from the conversation at the doorway to the conversation at the Head Master's desk. What Jeffries overheard, he would report to Fletcher, and what Fletcher learned, he would report to Rudd. "Whenever his duties to his liege-master permit it, sir." Which was to say, never. 

"Good. Even though your liege-master is only in the fifth form, he has a fine grasp of geography and military history. He should be able to help you in those areas." 

Meredith ventured, "I've been creating a map of the Bay in my spare time, sir." 

"Excellent!" The Head Master smiled as he placed his hand on Meredith's shoulder. "I would like to see that map. Perhaps we can put it on display in the geography lesson-room when it is completed." 

"Thank you, sir." Meredith felt himself grow warm with happiness. He always ended up cheerful after talking with the Head Master, though the Head Master rarely had time for him, being responsible for a dozen school masters who were his liegemen, a dozen more who simply worked for him, four hundred boys and young men, and all of the school servants who were not owned by the Houses. 

"Well, now," said the Head Master, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. "I must correct these . . . and I have promised to meet with one of your lesson-mates." 

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Meredith backed away, then remembered, belatedly, that as a lesser master he was permitted to turn his back on higher-ranked masters. He quickly turned round and started toward the door. 

At the doorway, Davenham was saying, ". . . talked as though the Act was all for the sake of the servants, when everyone knows that a servant can just as easily be sent to prison for violating the Abuse of Power Act as a master can. All that the master needs to do is pretend that the servant raped him or blackmailed him or otherwise severely harmed him. And even when the master and servant both enter into the affair with honor . . . I kept wondering when someone would ask the obvious question: If it's forbidden for a master and servant to make private arrangements for bed-service because the servant hasn't made a public oath of allegiance to his master, and if it's forbidden for a servant to make a public oath of allegiance to his master, what happens if a servant longs for his master and truly wants to serve him in bed?" 

Trafford shrugged. "There can't be many servants like that. I suppose that the few who exist must sacrifice their desires, for the sake of the greater good." 

"No, it was for the sake of the Traditionalists," inserted Jeffries. "They're the ones who really hated the Act of Celadon and Brun, because it was originally passed by Reformed Traditionalist High Masters." 

Trafford said nothing. Oates shook his head in mute commentary. Davenham elbowed Jeffries hard in the ribs. 

"Sir," added Jeffries belatedly. 

"You know," said Trafford slowly, "if you keep up this habit of acting disrespectfully toward higher-ranked masters, someone is likely to invoke the clause in the Abuse of Power Act that covers what acts are forbidden to liegemen and servants." 

Jeffries flushed. "I've never severely harmed a master, sir. And it's not disrespectful to contradict you. It's not as though I'm a servant, forbidden by law from directly contradicting masters." 

"He means well, sir." Davenham spoke up in defense of his friend. "He just forgets protocol sometimes." 

Nobody was looking in the direction of Meredith, who had paused near the doorway, waiting for the masters there to step back. Trafford said, "If you back-talk a first-ranked master, one thing leads to another. Just because your liege-master is still in first form—" 

But here the conversation was interrupted by a scuffle in the corridor. Trafford, glancing in the direction of the battle, said with a sigh, "They always choose a moment when I'm due for footer practice. —No, you can stay here, Davenham. Oates is waiting to talk with you. —All right, you lot, that's enough. Save your House rivalries for the playing fields." 

Amidst the chorus of protests from the squabbling students of the Second and Third Houses, Meredith tried to slip through the vacant space that Trafford had left. Jeffries caught sight of him and sneered. "I hear that the _school_ thinks you're a master, Meredith. Aren't you glad that the _school_ knows what you are?" 

"Oh, give it up, Jeffries," said Davenham, who had turned away to speak to Oates. "We don't need another battle in the corridor." 

"As though he'd fight back." Jeffries kicked Meredith in the ankle as he passed. "Bloody servant. Hey, Davenham, is it true that Meredith stood up when the Head Master called on him, just like a servant does?" 

Meredith closed his thoughts to Davenham's reply, squeezing his way carefully past the feuding students, who had been forced by Trafford to lay down their weapons: schoolbooks that they had been flinging at one another. Rudd was noticeably absent; he was talking with Pembroke, within sight and sound of the rumpus. Meredith, feeling his ankle throb from the pain of the kick, began to limp down the corridor that curved round the circular building. Then he halted in his tracks as he caught sight of who stood beyond the battleground. 

Carruthers had just turned away from the battle. It was not clear whether he had taken part in the battle himself or was simply satisfied that Trafford had matters in hand. Arthurs – overlooking all the fuss in the blithe manner he had – was saying, "And he failed to heed what you said? Sweet blood, the man should be sent down for sheer idiocy. I mean, first he ignores the Head Master's warning, and then he ignores you. . . ." 

"Well, if everyone was sent down who made a mistake—" Carruthers stopped speaking abruptly. Meredith, hunched over his schoolbooks, was aware of the Head's gaze upon him as he passed. As he reached the door to the outside, Carruthers said behind him, "I'm sorry – what were you saying, Arth?" 

o—o—o

Safely back in his dormitory – or as safe as he could be, for the dormitory was abandoned at this time of day – Meredith ducked into his cubicle, pulling shut the dark red curtain behind him. The walls of the ceilingless cubicle were made of pine and were just high enough not to be seen over casually. Davenham, who had charge over the third-rankers' dormitory, had been chosen for his height: he could stand on tiptoe each night and look over the curtain-rods to be certain that all was well in the cubicles. 

Meredith had never been entirely sure what nefarious deeds Davenham expected to see in the cubicles. He knew, of course, that it was wrong to deliberately spill his seed without his liege-master's permission; his father had told him that, long before such matters were of any importance in Meredith's life. Meredith supposed that some liegemen were faithless enough to waste what belonged to their liege-masters, and that Davenham was in charge of reporting them to their liege-masters. 

Meredith himself had not felt any temptation to touch himself there since the term began. Rudd had decided, early on, that it would be amusing to make Meredith spill his seed against his will. Even though Meredith knew that he was not responsible for acts committed against his will, and even though he knew that he was attending Rudd at Pembroke's orders, still he always felt ashamed afterwards that he had not been able to preserve for his liege-master the gift that should belong only to Pembroke. 

Or to Meredith's wife. He suspected that if he went to Pembroke and told him he wanted to marry, Pembroke would give his permission, and that would be the end of Meredith's service to Rudd. Even Rudd dared not require bed-service from a married master. But it seemed a sorry end to the tale: that Meredith should take a wife simply because he had failed to find a way to serve Pembroke. 

Setting his schoolbooks aside on the chair in the cubicle, Meredith poured cold water from the pitcher into the washbasin and splashed it over his face. Perhaps the way to impress Pembroke was through his studies. If the Head Master displayed Meredith's map in a lesson-room, surely that would make Meredith worthy of notice? 

Now filled with eagerness, Meredith wiped his hands on the towel that hung from the hook on the wash-stand; then, with a quick look at the curtain to ascertain that it was closed, he got down on his knees. He kept the map hidden between the mattress and the hard wood beneath. The map was too large to carry from room to room, as he carried his schoolbooks and his copy of _The Tale of Celadon and Brun_. 

He stuck his hand under the mattress, but found that the map must have shifted during the night, for it was not in its usual spot. He reached further, but his hand encountered only mattress and board. 

Now feeling panicky, he stood and heaved up the mattress so that it jolted one of the walls of the cubicle, sending a muffled thump throughout the dormitory. Meredith's heart pounded as he looked down. 

It was gone. The map of the Bay that he had been working on for two terms – the map that showed every tributary, every inlet, every wharf – was no longer there. 

"Looking for something, servant?" 

Meredith jerked round at the sound of Jeffries's voice. Jeffries had pulled back the curtain and was standing there, along with many of the Third House's other third-ranked lads. Jeffries held a chamber-pot. 

"Here," said Jeffries, laughing. "Catch!" And he flung the chamber-pot at Meredith. 

Meredith, who had quick reflexes, managed to catch the pot before it crashed into his head. The scraps of paper in the chamber-pot, on the other hand, were impossible to catch: they poured out of the pot, drifting into his hair, his eyes, his nose, his mouth . . . Over his coughs, he heard Jeffries say, "Better clean that mess up, servant, before Rudd beats you. You know how he hates a dirty servant." 

The other lads shouted with laughter. Meredith, wiping his face clean and trying to brush the scraps of paper from his hair, looked down. At his feet, where the map lay shredded, he could just see a torn piece of paper that said, "Barren—" 

His eyes teared up. Somebody hooted, "Cry-baby! Look at him, crying over a few pieces of paper!" 

"He's sensitive as a servant," said Jeffries with mock solemnity. "Poor servant. Do you miss not having a master to tell you what to do? Don't worry, you'll find one some day. —Say, that's the bell for footer practice." Jeffries whirled round. "Let's go watch." 

The third-rankers darted off. Meredith stood still a minute, weighing in his mind the punishment he would receive for being late for footer practice versus the punishment he would receive for leaving the shredded paper on the floor. Sighing, he knelt. Pembroke might not even notice if he failed to turn up for practice. Rudd, on the other hand, had a habit of turning up at Meredith's cubicle after every rag that Meredith endured, in order to cane his fag for untidiness. 

Wiping away his remaining tears, Meredith set to work.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

The mid-point of autumn term turned out to be the day that the fifth-formers had chosen for their annual rag. 

The Fifth-Form Rag was a relatively new tradition – only a tri-century old – but it was a popular tradition, not only among the students, but also among the school masters, who had convinced themselves that the rag was a sign of inter-House unity. There was no doubt that the day of the rag was the one day during the circuit of seasons when members of all eleven Houses united together, albeit for the purpose of creating mayhem. 

A suspiciously large number of fifth-formers were absent from chapel that evening; by the time the chapel master rose to give the evening's commentary on Remigeus's sayings, the students were nudging each other in a knowing manner. The chapel master remained blindly unaware that anything out of the ordinary was about to occur. The Head Master, who had asked the chapel master to take his place as commentator that night, had a carefully composed look of innocence on his face. 

The interruption came just when the chapel master was warming to his theme, which was about the importance of lesser masters showing respect for their superiors – a thinly veiled way of telling the students to show respect for the school masters and their chapel master. 

"Hold it right there!" squawked a voice loudly from under the lectern, which nearly caused the chapel master to fall over in fright. "We have all of you surrounded! Place your hands behind your heads and come quietly!" 

As the loudspeaker made its announcement, into the inner chapel strode Pembroke and a number of fifth-formers from other Houses. All of them were dressed in policemen's uniforms. All of them carried rifles. 

The student nearest to Pembroke yelped and raised his hands to his head with alacrity. The chapel master spluttered about the unseemliness of bringing weapons into a place of worship. Everyone else laughed and surrendered to the mock policemen, allowing themselves to be guided out of the inner chapel and down the stairs to the crypt. Meredith caught a glimpse of Carruthers, walking toward the stairs with his hands behind his head, smiling as Pembroke prodded him in the back with his rifle. Rudd wasn't even pretending that he was in danger; he strolled alongside Pembroke, chatting with him. 

The crypt, of course, was where the ash-pit was located, but the fifth-formers had enough reverence not to disturb the part of the underground chamber where the remains of the dead lay. Instead, they guided the other students and the school masters to the storage area, which now bore a sign above its door: "Prison City." 

Inside, the storage area held none of its usual clutter of old benches, broken chairs, and extra mattress frames. Instead, the twelve gated stalls were empty except for a few mysterious metal objects, lit by battery-powered electric lamps. 

The "prisoners" were forced into the twelve stalls, without regard for the House names labelling the stalls. Rudd, unsurprisingly, managed to end up outside the stalls, alongside Pembroke. Pembroke and the other "policemen" had now transformed into prison guards. Since nobody knew what the guards in Prison City looked like, he and the other fifth-formers had put hoods over their faces, as though they were torturers from the Eternal Dungeon in the old days. 

Meredith found that, by chance, he had been placed in the same stall as Carruthers. He edged himself into a corner of the stall, hoping that Rudd would not notice his placement; if Rudd did, Meredith was sure that a caning would follow the ragging. Carruthers, fortunately, seemed not to have noticed him. The Head was quietly talking to the servant who had been assigned the job this term of turning the pages when the students gave the chapel readings from Remigeus's sayings. Most of the servants, who sat in the chapel gallery during services, had been left behind to make their way back to their quarters, but this man had evidently been caught up in the general corralling on the main floor of the chapel. 

Some of the students in the other stalls had begun rattling on the bars of the now-locked gates, crying amidst laughter, "Let us out! We're innocent!" 

_"Silence!"_ The voice came from yet another loudspeaker, sitting in the dark corridor outside the stalls, where the hooded fifth-formers now patrolled. "You have been convicted and sentenced to imprisonment in Prison City for abuse of power over your servants" – there was a general chorus of booing from the students – "or for causing severe harm to your servant-masters." This brought laughter. The loudspeaker continued relentlessly, "You will now pay the penalty for your heinous deeds. If you fail to follow the instructions of your new House Masters" – the guards waved, to make clear who they were – "you will be tortured and broken. The punishments will now begin." 

The punishments were administered by the mysterious metal objects in the "cells," which, it turned out, were supposed to be automated devices controlled by the prison computer. There was a device for electrocution, a device for freezing people in place, a device for serving horrid liquids . . . The students and school masters gamely played along, though even Meredith's fertile imagination began to die after a while. 

The last instruction, however, jolted everyone awake. "And now you will meet your final test," solemnly announced the loudspeaker (or rather, the prison computer, as had become clear at some point in the proceedings). "As punishment for having abused those under their power, all liege-masters here must kneel to their liegemen." 

There was a murmur of discontent. In the stall next to Meredith's, someone made an enquiry, and the Head Master cheerfully replied, "No, no, we must follow the instructions, or dire consequences will arise. —Master Trundle, may I have the honor of serving you?" 

Having thus received the imprimatur of authority, the final part of the rag proceeded; indeed, some of the liegemen seemed to be quite enthusiastic about receiving their liege-masters' obeisance. Many of the liege-masters were good sports about it; Meredith saw Arthurs leave his fellow guards in order to fling himself abjectly at the feet of his liegeman, who was imprisoned inside the stall. Arthurs was laughing all the while. Nearby, an argument had broken out over whether a second-ranker should kneel to his liegeman or receive his liege-master's obeisance. 

Meredith, alone in the corner now, looked round. Pembroke was one of the hooded House Masters outside, while Rudd, thank goodness, was outside as well. As a third-ranker, Meredith had no liegeman to kneel to. He was just wondering what to do when the crowd parted, and he caught sight of Carruthers, standing alone near the bars, watching him. 

His breath caught. For a fatal moment, he almost stepped forward. Then came the sound of Rudd, arguing with the fifth-formers, who wanted him to kneel to Pembroke. With his heart beating rapidly, Meredith turned away. 

When he managed to raise his courage a minute later, he turned to see that Carruthers was kneeling now, his face turned up toward the chapel servant, who looked exceedingly uncomfortable. 

o—o—o

"Him?" said Davenham when Meredith asked afterwards. "That's Master Carruthers's valet." 

He crawled under the chapel lectern as he spoke, turning over to lie on his back. Davenham was in the Lower Fifth, two forms below Meredith, but he was practically the only student who was willing to speak politely to Meredith, having evidently decided that his own status as a second-ranked master gave him the duty to act civil toward the symbolic runt of the Third House. 

Now he fiddled around with a screwdriver, red in the face from his exertions. As the "prison computer," Davenham had been left in charge of disconnecting the loudspeakers. He was doing so now, immediately after the ragging, because the Head Master had passed on to him a quiet word that certain equipment "which appears to contravene the Embargo Act" would need to be off the school grounds by the end of the day. 

Meredith considered offering to do the work for Davenham, then thought better of this idea. Instead, he said, "He has a valet serving him here? I didn't know that was allowed, sir." 

"It's not," Davenham said, mumbling around a piece of wire in his mouth. "He had to get special permission from the Head Master. Apparently, his parents were going on an extended holiday to Mip, and the House of His Master's Kindness was being shut up in the meantime. The valet had nowhere to stay." 

"But how could Master Carruthers's parents shut up their House?" Meredith asked in bewilderment. "Where did all their servants and lesser masters go who live there?" 

Davenham shrugged as he pulled out another wire. "I heard that Master Carruthers's parents sold all their domestic servants last spring. They're Egalitarians, you know. And they have almost no liegemen, for the same reason – just a few captains for their boats, and a foreman for their oyster packing plant. I think all of their watermen live on shantyboats." 

"So Master Carruthers doesn't have any liegemen in the Second House?" 

"Well, when he becomes High Master, all of the first-ranked masters in his landstead will be his liegemen, of course," Davenham replied. "But if you mean now . . . No, I suppose not. Bloody blades!" This, as he nicked himself with a penknife, trying to cut a wire. "I give up," he said, scooting himself out from under the lectern. "Master Arthurs ought to be doing this instead of me. It's his equipment." 

"Is it?" said Meredith, curious. The loudspeaker just barely contravened the Embargo Act of 1912, being a tri-decade older than that date. "Where did he get it from, sir?" 

"Who knows?" Davenham rose and clapped his hands free of dust. "His room is filled with contraband equipment; he always claims that it's to help him with his mathematics studies. He's going to get into trouble one of these days. . . . Well, dismantling this isn't work for a second-ranker like me anyway. I wish my liegeman could fag for me. Oates is in the Sixth Form, so he's too old. I suppose I'll have to find one of the servants to do this. How tedious." 

"Er . . . I could . . ." Meredith said hesitantly. 

Davenham looked over at him quickly. "Sweet blood, no! I didn't mean to suggest that. Master Rudd would cane me till next term if he discovered I'd been making use of his fag. —Here, you don't have to do that." 

Meredith, who had been going down on his knees to brush the dirt off Davenham's trousers, hastily stood up at the sound of alarm in Davenham's voice. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to impose myself on you." 

Davenham gave him a look – one of those looks that said clearly, "You're not acting your proper part" – but said only, "Oh, I suppose I should go change before Master Trafford sees me like this." Davenham's liege-master was exacting about appearances. "Blast it, I'll be late meeting with him. I don't know why the Head Master won't allow students to have their valets here. I mean, it's not as though most of us have fags." 

"Who is Master Carruthers's fag, sir?" 

It seemed a natural enough question to ask, and indeed Davenham, who was trying to brush dust off his vest, barely looked up as he said, "Doesn't have one. I suppose he doesn't need one, what with the valet. But oh, did you see that valet's expression tonight when Master Carruthers knelt to him? It was like his face was saying, 'I will never in a tri-millennium be able to live down this humiliating mockery.' I mean, really, what was Master Carruthers _thinking_ , acting as though his servant was his liegeman?" 

"Maybe the valet was just embarrassed because he thought he was being honored too greatly. I mean, to have a first-ranked master kneel to him . . ." 

"'It will be my honor to serve you, master, and it will give me pleasure to fulfill my duty as a master.'" Davenham quoted the liegeman's oath easily as he nudged aside a coil of wires with his foot. "Those of us who are liegemen don't find it embarrassing to be knelt to. I mean, I've been knelt to and bowed to and curtseyed to plenty of times in my life, and so have you – if not by your liegeman, then by servants. It's not mockery for us to receive service; it's just humorous to have our liege-master be the one offering the service. But for a servant to be knelt to . . . Honestly, Master Carruthers must have been out of his mind. He really ought to assign himself a fag, if only so that he won't be forcing his servant to do a liegeman's service." 

"Is he?" Meredith asked quickly as he followed Davenham to the chapel door. "I mean . . . is his valet serving him in bed, sir?" 

"I shouldn't think so," replied Davenham. "It was Master Carruthers's uncle who wrote the Abuse of Power Act. I think that's why everyone was nervous tonight. —Oh, thanks." This was as Meredith held open the door to the corridor that led to the outside of the Old Building. 

"They were nervous because Master Carruthers knelt to his servant?" 

"Don't be silly. I mean that people were nervous because making a liege-master kneel to his liegeman was a little too close to another act that the Abuse of Power Act forbids: making a master act like a servant." 

"But sir, you fifth-formers only ordered the liege-masters to act like liegemen, not servants," Meredith argued as they came out into the coolness of the dusk, where the sun was setting over the Bay. 

"Which is why the Head Master let us get away with it. —Oh, blast." 

This exclamation came as Trafford appeared on the path ahead of them, turning his head to and fro, clearly in search of someone. Oates was walking slightly behind him. 

"Quick!" said Davenham. "Go fetch the loudspeaker and— Oh, sorry, I'm not thinking. Find a servant to do that, will you? Master Trafford looks as though he's ready to eat me alive for being late." He hurried forward to where Trafford stood, frowning. Trafford said a few words that carried to Meredith, concerning Davenham's filthiness. For a moment, it looked as though Davenham would be forced to do the obeisance as a form of apology to his liege-master, right in front of his own liegeman. But that sort of protocol had fallen very much out of fashion between liege-masters and liegemen, long before Meredith was born; not even Rudd required his liegemen to kneel to him, except during the initial oath of allegiance. So instead, Trafford let the matter go with a brief scolding and then gestured toward the grove nearby. Davenham and his liege-master and liegeman stepped off the path together. 

Other students were walking arm-in-arm across the Circle toward the grove now, in twos and threes and occasionally larger groups, when a liege-master had several of his liegemen as classmates. The Head Master encouraged liege-masters to walk in the grove each week-break with their liegemen, to increase the opportunities available for the liege-masters to care for their liegemen. Liegemen who were also liege-masters usually brought along their own liegemen – hence the triads amidst the pairs. 

Rudd, though, disliked sharing his time with Pembroke. Standing on the path, Meredith could see what he saw on every week-break: Pembroke disappearing into the grove with Rudd, leaving Meredith behind. 

Meredith paused only long enough to find a servant who was heading back toward the Old Building; he rapidly conveyed Davenham's orders to the servant. Then Meredith turned away and began to walk slowly toward the New Building. He told himself that Pembroke's disinterest in him didn't matter, for Meredith had much to think about on this night. 

Had he perhaps been wrong in what he thought Carruthers wanted from him? Was Carruthers seeking, not a fag, but a liegeman? Of course, Carruthers couldn't actually ask Meredith to be his liegeman. Meredith was a citizen of the Third Landstead; he would need to be released by his liege-master before he could become a citizen of the Second Landstead and offer his allegiance to a higher-ranked master there. That sort of change rarely happened. Usually a liegeman's son chose to pledge himself to the son of his father's liege-master, which was why Meredith was liegeman to Pembroke; Meredith's father was liegeman to Pembroke's father. Indeed, Meredith would not have been permitted to attend Narrows School if Pembroke had not been scheduled to attend the school as well; the school rules required that second- and third-ranked students have liege-masters in their school Houses, for at least three terms of their attendance. Meredith had given his oath of allegiance to Pembroke the previous spring term, during the chapel ceremony devoted to Meredith's confirmation-of-journeyman-status. It had been a proud moment for Meredith, kneeling before the fourth-former who would be his liege-master for the rest of his life. 

Meredith had scarcely seen Pembroke since then, except during games. Pembroke was forever in the company of his own liege-master, Rudd; he never seemed to have time for his liegeman. Meredith tried to tell himself that other third-ranked liegemen also had this problem, but the truth was that he knew of no other student in school who was as neglected by his liege-master as Meredith himself was. 

Which meant, in all likelihood, that Pembroke was neglecting Meredith, not because of the second-ranker's devotion to Rudd, but because Pembroke didn't want Meredith as his liegeman. 

Meredith made his way back to the dormitory for the third-rankers, his head bowed. No, it was ridiculous to think that Carruthers – who, as a landstead heir, could ask any unpledged student in his House to be his liegeman – would ask a third-ranker from another House to be his liegeman. Third-rankers were almost never asked to serve first-rankers; that required an elevation in rank for the third-ranker, and while Carruthers, as heir to the High Mastership of the Second Landstead, could no doubt arrange that, there was no reason why he should want a master in the Third House as his liegeman. 

Unless, of course, he was dredging. 

Meredith, standing at the entrance to the empty dormitory, stared at the students' cubicles there, trying to think. It seemed the ultimate in disloyalty for him to think of Carruthers in such a manner, but he had to face the truth: in all likelihood, Carruthers had shown interest in Meredith only because the Head was a dredger like his father. Carruthers's father was notorious for sending boats to dredge in the waters of the House of Mollusc, which was the House that Meredith had grown up in and would serve in as a lesser master after he graduated from university. It made perfect sense that, if Carruthers wanted to rag Rudd, he would dredge in Rudd's waters. His own House's students had said as much. 

Irresolutely, Meredith went to his cubicle, climbed into his pajamas, and lay down on the bed, staring at the dark ceiling until the other third-rankers returned, chatting cheerfully about their time with their liege-masters. Then Meredith turned on his side and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. 

o—o—o

The last weeks of autumn term were usually quiet, there being no holiday ahead to rouse the students' excitement. The servants, naturally, had begun to look forward to celebrating the Slaves' Autumn Festival, which coincided each year with the arrival of the northwest blow – indeed, the subtle signs that the blow was about to arrive would signal the final day of school. But for the students, the Slaves' Autumn Festival and the days that followed would be ordinary and dull, marked only by the sober proceedings of the High Masters' quarterly. The quarterly was taking place this time in the Seventh Landstead, yet even the members of the Seventh House seemed uninterested in the meeting. The Seventh House's members, who were still nursing their wounds from coming in last in the term's matches, was in no mood to celebrate their landstead's tri-yearly hosting of the High Masters. 

As it turned out, matters were rather more exciting at the end of the term than anyone had anticipated, for the Second House students chose this moment to grow vicious in their ragging. 

Meredith was used to being ragged; he was the most obvious target among the students of the Third House, to such an extent that he was even ragged by other members of the Third House. But neither he nor any other student at Narrows had ever before experienced the whirlwind of destruction that descended upon the Third House in the final fortnight of the term. Mattresses were torn to shreds, and the feathers scattered in the wind; schoolbooks were found blazing in the hearths; photographs of loved ones were torn to shreds and then pasted on the walls of the House, with obscene comments added about the virgin sisters and brothers in the pictures. Boxes fell unexpectedly off shelves, invariably onto the heads of Third House students; classwork went missing at the last minute, with consequent lowering of class standings; and any member of the Third House who ventured out of the House found his way continually barred by broomsticks that tripped him or by culled oysters laid on the pathways to make him slip. 

Rudd placed guards at the entrances to the House, hoping to at least prevent the ragging from taking place within the House's territory, but with no luck; the students of the Second House, following the habits formed by their fathers, slipped into the House by night and did their mischief while everyone was asleep. Cries of dismay upon waking became as common a morning ritual in the Third House as tea-service. Furious, Rudd and his fellow prefects of the Third House began patrolling at night, whereupon the Second House students simply switched their ragging back to the daytime. 

The climax was reached three days before the end of term, when Hinkston, a mild-mannered second-form student of the Third House, stepped into a tub of bathing water, which was supposed to have been heated by the House's servants to blood temperature. 

The tub had been surreptitiously refilled with close-to-boiling water. Hinkston's screams could be heard into the Old Building. He was removed by the Third House's prefects to the infirmary, where he was discovered to have second-degree burns. 

The following morning, the Head Master addressed the entire school at the end of chapel. "I have never seen anything wrong with a mild rag," he said, looking over the assembly of silent boys and young men. "Indeed, I am not ashamed to admit that I might – just might – have been in the vicinity of certain rags that the Third House inflicted upon the Second House, back in '46 Barley." 

A spattering of laughter surged up from the students, while House Master Morris – who had been Head Prefect of the Second House when the Head Master was a first-form student in the Third House – smiled broadly. The Head Master smiled as well, then dropped his smile to say, "But such ragging that takes place in this school has always been within the bounds of fair play. A bucket of cold water hung over the door is one thing; second-degree burns are quite another thing. I have been reluctant to move against this term's ragging before now, lest I seem to favor one House above another. But if this sort of thing happens again, I will penalize whichever House has committed the offence, by removing their privilege to play for the Spring Term Cup." 

A gasp arose from all the students present. Meredith quickly looked over at the Captain of the Second House's team – who, as it happened, was also the Head of the Second House. Carruthers was doing an admirable job of hiding whatever emotion he was holding inside. 

"I trust," said the High Master gently, leaning upon the chapel lectern, "that such a measure will be unnecessary. Youthful high spirits sometimes get carried away, especially when family loyalties are called into play. I do hope that all of you will remember that you will be showing greatest loyalty to your fathers and mothers if you devote your energy to your lesson-work and your teamwork, and do not allow yourselves to enter into any activities that can only result in disgrace to your school House and to your House at home. Peace within the school buildings and vigorous fighting on the playing field – that is what the Houses of this school should aim toward. I for one am looking forward to next term's cup, and I would not want to have anything mar my enjoyment at seeing such splendid play as I've seen this term." And with those words, the Head Master dismissed the school. 

Heading through the arched corridor that led from the Old Building to the New Building, Davenham said to Meredith, "Only the Head Master could make a thorough scourging like that sound like a compliment." 

Meredith nodded in agreement. He did not know of any student in the school who failed to admire the Head Master, who had a surpassing talent for keeping hard control over the rambunctious boys and young men, while simultaneously making clear that he understood the students' predicaments and forgave their occasional peccadillos. 

"Say, did you hear?" Jeffries elbowed Meredith out of the way, as he always did. Meredith gave way to him, as he always did. "Rudd was saying before chapel that Carruthers was so embarrassed by his House's behavior that he went and apologized to the Head Master this morning!" 

"Oh, he wouldn't have." Davenham dismissed this idea with a wave of the hand as they entered the New Building. "His father is the one who started all this." 

"Rudd says that Carruthers doesn't get along with his father—" 

"Master Rudd and Master Carruthers," Davenham corrected, but in an automatic manner; he wasn't the sort of second-ranker to stand much on ceremony, which was why he and Jeffries were fast friends. 

"Master Rudd, then, but I don't see why I should have to give a dirty dredger like Carruthers the title of 'master.'" 

Davenham sighed. "Oh, don't be difficult. You know why – he's a first-ranker. Besides, you just claimed he was embarrassed by the ragging." 

"Oh . . . well." Jeffries shrugged. "I expect he was just trying to calm down the Head Master. But it's true, what Master Rudd says about Master Carruthers not getting along with his father. My father told me that, after Master Carruthers finishes university, he plans to leave the House of His Master's Kindness and go to live with his uncle." 

"What does that prove, other than that his uncle has made him heir?" Davenham opened the door to the corridor for the second-rankers' studies, just wide enough for Jeffries. "Look, I don't want to spend all day talking about the Second House; they've made themselves too much the center of attention already. Come to my study, and we can discuss more important things before class. What do you think of our House's chances for the cup next term?" 

The door swung shut, leaving the only student among them who was actually on the House team – Meredith – standing alone in the corridor.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Three days later, Meredith rode the Third House's omnibus from Narrows School to the mainland. 

The school was old-fashioned enough to retain a horse-drawn 'bus, which the local gunners appreciated, since the quiet clop of horses' hooves did not disturb the waterfowl. The greater noise came from within the 'bus: thirty boys and young men, of both the second and third ranks, shouting at the top of their lungs as they exchanged cheerful insults over which of them would be likely to waste their holiday time the most. 

Meredith – sitting at the end of one of the facing benches, next to the back door – ignored the other students. Pembroke had accepted the offer of a ride from Rudd, whose father had sent a chauffeured car down to the school to pick up his young heir. Meredith was therefore under no obligation to speak with anyone in the 'bus. It was easier to think of it that way than to acknowledge to himself that no one in the Third House was interested in speaking to him. 

The one possible exception to this rule, Davenham, was currently sitting at the front of the bus, laughing as he successfully resisted a fellow second-ranker's insistence that he slip an eel down the collar of the 'bus's servant-driver. Other students had brought out their lunch-boxes as well, rather than save the food for the long trips north and east to their homes. Meredith, the only student here who belonged to the House of Mollusc, had not bothered to accept one of the lunch-boxes packed by the school servants. Instead, he looked through the back window-pane at the passing scenery. 

Hoopersville was the sole village in the middle island of the three-island chain of Hoopers Island – the middle island being where Narrows School was located. The village was no more than a cluster of watermen's houses around a harbor. The harbor was thronged with workboats, none of them owing direct allegiance to the High Master of the Third Landstead, for Rudd's father refused to own any of the tonger boats, preferring to devote his energy to running the landstead's various packing houses. The third-ranked captains and servant crews of the tonger boats were therefore left as independent as any low-ranked men could expect to be in the upper landsteads; there were even cases where servant tongers had been granted permission to pool their savings to buy two-men skiffs to tong from. It was said that the servants in the Third Landstead held greater freedom than any other servants in the upper landstead. The man who proudly boasted this was the landstead's High Master. 

Meredith tried not to think how matters would change when the landstead's ailing High Master died and young Rudd rose to power. Instead, he let his eye linger on the landscape at the up-Bay end of the middle island. Houses built on foundation blocks in anticipation of flood-waters threw shadows across their lawns, like old men standing on crutches. Other houses were widows, their porches veiled by dark netting to keep out summer mosquitos. A trot-line lay in loops over the porch bannister of one house, awaiting next summer's crabbing season. In several yards, pig carcasses hung from tree branches; the annual hog slaughter had occurred that day, after the first frost of the season. Nearly every house had a few pigs and chickens and a vegetable garden, but not many farms were left; most of the island's men had been attracted by the lure of the water, and by the good prices paid for the winter oysters. 

The 'bus reached Narrows Ferry Bridge, where a ferry had once transported the Narrows School students from the middle island to the island that was up-Bay of it. The sound of laughter diminished in the 'bus as the students looked out the windows and saw what was coming. 

The autumn winds which had been nudging the 'bus since it left the school were pushing waves up toward the one-lane wooden bridge that spanned the waters between the middle and upper islands. Meredith saw Davenham bite his lip and lean forward to say something to the driver. The driver's response must have been reassuring, for Davenham leaned back in his seat and smiled at Oates, who was sitting beside him. 

Meredith – who had more experience with the Bay's power than any of the other students present – remained tense as the 'bus approached the bridge. What worried him was not the water crashing against the bridge; what worried him was that, the moment the horses set hoof on the bridge, the 'bus would reach beyond the screen of the middle island's marsh grass and trees. 

Sure enough, the first slam of the northwest wind upon the 'bus nearly tipped the vehicle over. Several of the apprentice-aged boys screeched before the journeyman-aged students – and the boys' liege-masters, where available – settled them down with stern looks and words. Then the students were silent as the horses struggled their way across the bridge. The driver whistled between his teeth in such a fearless fashion that Meredith guessed he was a former waterman, and that he considered this small show of the Bay's strength to be pathetic in comparison to storms he had endured in the past. 

Finally the omnibus reached the end of the bridge. The students in the 'bus gave a collective sigh, other than a few first-formers who were staring open-mouthed at the coming causeway. 

The causeway – a narrow neck of land that jutted down from the upper island – was scarcely wider than the bridge they had just traversed, and the land was closer to the water. Waves were rushing over the causeway. The horses, clearly struggling now to retain their strength against the drag of the wind and the water, heaved their way along the road. No railing existed to prevent the 'bus from being swept into the Bay. Jeffries, who couldn't swim, moaned and pressed his face against the shoulder of his liege-master. His liege-master ignored him; he had opened the back window and was throwing bread crumbs out at the passing gulls. 

They reached Smoke Point, where the causeway broadened momentarily before narrowing again. Looking through the back window, Meredith caught a glimpse of a swiftly passing boat whose mast was higher than the dome on the school chapel. Frowning, he scrambled past two other students to look out the Bayside window of the 'bus. 

He was in time to catch sight of the skipjack's name on the bow's trail-board before the boat passed by. Then the other students pushed him back with rude remarks about how he stank like a servant. Meredith returned to his seat, his concern evaporating like winter mist. _Freedom For All_ was no pirate boat from the Second Landstead, arriving in bold daylight to dredge in the Third Landstead's water. Rather, it was the boat of the pirate king himself: Comrade Benjamin Carruthers, whose brother-in-law was High Master of the Second Landstead and whose son was heir to that High Master. M Carruthers's father had evidently decided to travel to the High Masters' quarterly meeting in the manner most likely to irritate the Third Landstead's High Master, sailing through the Third Landstead's waters on a dredgers' skipjack. 

The 'bus had nearly reached the end of the causeway now. Standing on the edge of the road ahead, ragged in their servants' clothes, were two small boys and a small girl, all fishing from the Bay. The 'bus's driver, not bothering to pause, rang the omnibus's bell. 

The two boys quickly stepped off the road. The girl, hampered by her skirt from rapid movement, tripped and fell into the Bay. Meredith, half rising from his seat, heard her scream as she fell; he also heard cries of anguish from the two boys. 

There was laughter from some of the students nearby who had seen the girl fall into the water. Meredith, still half-risen, balled his hands into fists as he tried to decide what to do. He was unofficially ranked as a master; he had the power to order the servant-driver to stop and help with the rescue of the girl from the autumn-cold Bay. But there were other masters here, some higher in rank than him, and none of them seemed to consider the episode as anything other than an occasion for humor. 

Feeling fear and shame buffet him like the wind, Meredith looked out the back window. The water next to that point of the causeway must have been shallow, for the boys were helping the girl climb back on land. She was drenched and dripping; one of the boys stripped off his overcoat to place it over the girl, and the other boy swiftly followed suit. 

It would be far easier for the children to travel back to their home by a warm 'bus than by foot. Flushed with self-reproach, Meredith sank back into his seat, his heart throbbing. 

The road began to curve after that, following the line of the land. They passed a girls' school, run under the supervision of the High Mastresses; it was located near the mouth of the upper island's Back Creek. 

Someone opened the creekside window, and the smells of the creek's wharves drifted in: oysters and mud and musty clothes. Nearby, a brogan unloaded its barrels of oysters while one of its crewmen swept the deck. Another crewmen tended his oyster tongs, which looked like rakes scissored together, except that they were three times as tall as a man, designed to scoop up oysters from deep in the water. A third crewmen sang a ballad from the early days of the Commoners' Guild, while his boat-master considerately turned a deaf ear to the forbidden song. 

Meredith gathered his belongings together as the 'bus passed beyond Back Creek. After crossing a drawbridge further ahead, the 'bus would reach the mainland, where most of the students would disembark to take awaiting motorcars to their destinations. Beyond that point, the 'bus would make its way to Golden Hill, where the manor of the House of Mollusc was located. The 'bus would wait at Golden Hill until the holidays were over, in case Master Rudd or his liegeman wished to return by 'bus. If Meredith travelled that far, there was a good chance he would see his liege-master. 

But Pembroke had not invited Meredith to spend the holidays with him. 

Grabbing his rucksack filled with schoolbooks, Meredith made his way to the front and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "I'd like to be let off here, please," he announced. 

The driver raised his eyebrows – probably more at the politeness of Meredith's wording than at the request – but obediently brought the omnibus to a standstill, causing a bit of cursing from the driver of a hay wagon, who was trying to pull onto the drawbridge. The cursing abruptly stopped as Meredith stepped off the 'bus, his school blazer showing clearly his masterhood. 

Meredith quickly shrugged on his overcoat, which was completely black and safely anonymous. With his clothes covered and his unmarked wrists hidden by mittens, he looked no different from the young watermen servants standing near the bridge, shouting rude remarks at passing boats. 

The day was clear but cold; Meredith drew up his collar and looked around, seeking a familiar face. None was to be found. Only a few houses clustered nearby; most of the inhabitants of the upper island lived further down the road, in the village of Fishing Creek. The only bustle here was on the road, and on the narrow channel between the upper island and the mainland. 

The wooden drawbridge was up, and it stayed up. As Meredith watched, a wide-beamed flattie sailed slowly east through the crooked channel, its lookout carefully noting the placement of the stakes and lights that kept mariners away from the shoals. Other boats followed in its wake: a skiff, a black-nancy, a doryboat . . . 

Meredith watched the procession with puzzlement. The name-boards revealed that the boats came from nearby islands: Tilghman, Taylor, Elliott, Deal, Bloodsworth . . . Then he remembered: tomorrow was the Slaves' Autumn Festival, an ancient festival that had not changed its name upon the emancipation of the servants. Festival time meant that the minstrel showboat was due to arrive at Back Creek. 

The first year after Meredith began his studies at Narrow School, he had gone with his father to attend a performance of the minstrels. Meredith had been appalled by minstrels' depiction of shambling, foolish servants who attended wise masters and mastresses. 

Meredith's father had roared with laughter at the performance. Afterwards, tentatively, Meredith had asked his father what humor he found in such caricatures. 

His father had smiled. "Tomorrow's performance," he had said, "will be different." 

It had taken Meredith some time to puzzle out the meaning of this statement. Then he had realized that, while the first night of the minstrels' performance was reserved for masters and mastresses, the second night was reserved for servants. Servants from Hoopers and nearby islands would flock to the performance. 

Did the minstrels – who were all servants themselves – serve up caricatures of the masters and mastresses during their performance for the servants? Meredith had never dared ask. He was keenly aware that, since he had been given the provisional rank of a master, he was barred from the private world of the servants – barred from sharing their secrets, from speaking with easy familiarity to them. 

Now, looking round at the waterman servants who were standing nearby, Meredith decided that he must go elsewhere for the answer to his current question. Tugging down his House cap against the wind, he set forth on the road to the village of Fishing Creek. 

o—o—o

The walk was a pleasant one, to start with. After he had passed a few houses, he reached a stretch of road that was bound on both sides by loblolly pines, their alligator-scale bark bare of all branches and needles until the trees touched the sky. Meredith noticed that fewer trees stood near the road than on his last visit; the money that could come from chopping and selling the trees was a perpetual temptation to the islanders. 

And now he had reached the point on the road where the trees gave way to picket fences and lawns, reclaimed from the marshland that had formerly existed there. Muddy ditches along the side of the road showed that the marshes weren't so easily eradicated. Neither were their inhabitants. 

Meredith's steps slowed. The last time he had walked this path – at the beginning of the autumn term, when he had travelled from the upper-island drawbridge to his school on the middle island – every footstep he had taken had caused the ditches to become one shaking mass of life. Hundreds of tiny fiddler crabs, shielding their faces modestly with their great claws, had scuttled sidewise to escape into their holes in the mud, frightened away by the appearance of the young man. Some of the crabs would bury themselves in the muddy bed of the ditch, with only their eye stalks poking out to watch Meredith as he passed. 

"Servant crabs," the islanders called them, because the fiddler crabs always retreated upon the entrance of their betters. 

Now the tide was up in the salt marsh; the mud was completely covered in water, and no crabs could be seen. Most likely the frost would keep them in their holes till springtime. Meredith was tempted to linger to see whether any of the servant crabs appeared if he were very quiet, but the peace along the road was broken by a servant-boy, whistling as he sauntered down the road, and chewing on the white sweetness inside a black needlerush. He gave Meredith a curious look and began to open his mouth; then he caught sight of Meredith's House cap and closed his mouth quickly. He lowered his eyes. 

Meredith waited until the boy was past; then he stuffed the cap into his overcoat pocket and continued on. 

Old women – the mothers and grandmothers of watermen – sat rocking on the porches of gingerbread-style houses that Meredith passed, coring apples or placing pears in preserving jars as they prepared for the hard winter. Most of the wharves behind the houses were denuded of boats; oyster season had begun during Autumn Illness week, and only the most lenient of boat-masters would let their men off on a working day this early in the season, even if Autumn Transformation week included the eve of a festival. 

Meredith passed the upper island's chapel. The choir inside was practicing its hymns for the next day. Several women and children lingered on the porch, listening to the music. Hoopers Island was a pious place; every member of the island knew that the watermen's lives might be cut off at any moment by a bad storm or an unmarked shoal. Death and rebirth were not just distant prospects for these families; death was a constant companion, and each birth was greeted with joy at the return of one who had died. Only the prevailing faith of the servants on the island – they were Traditionalists to a man, unlike their High Master – prevented the islanders from speculating about which baby resembled which recently died man. 

The road split. Feeling uncomfortable at the curious gazes of the women on the porches, Meredith turned off the main road onto the shortcut. Within seconds, he was surrounded by marshland. 

Black needlerush gave way to cordgrass, towering high. The sound of the choir-singing faded behind him. The loudest sound now was the crack of rifles and the energetic barking of Bay retrievers from over near Gunners Cove, where some of the gunners were taking aim at the first ducks of the season to make their way down from the north. In a few weeks, the island would be raucous with the noise of migrating ducks and of rifles bringing down as many waterfowl as possible, but now the gunfire came only intermittently. In between the shots, Meredith could hear the soft sounds of the marsh: a bubbling in the nearby water from some hidden creature, the tap of a woodpecker in the nearby pines, the snap of wings from a snowy egret that startled skyward at Meredith's approach, the limping flutter of a dying dragonfly, and the whine of mosquitoes. The island mosquitoes were so ferociously determined to find victims – even in the early oyster season – that they were joked to be reborn dredgers. 

Meredith's footsteps crunched along the pulverized oyster shells that made up the road. Unending rows of logs kept the shells from sinking down into the soft mud of the marsh. Though his feet escaped the mud, the recent rain had turned the shell-paving soggy; his boots were soon covered with the white flecks of oyster-paving. 

This didn't bother him. Unlike the other students, he had not worn his best clothes for his journey; he had possessed enough foresight to switch into his footer boots, which were designed for such wear and tear as a walk across the island could provide. Footer boots were based on the design of watermen's boots, but Meredith had always possessed enough sense not to mention this to any of his schoolfellows. Now, as the marshland disappeared in favor of lawns, he absentmindedly brushed away a migrating monarch butterfly that had mistaken his bright red scarf for a flower. His thoughts were not on his clothes but on Back Creek. 

The creek was crowded with sounds: the steady strike of the blacksmith's hammer as he made tongs for the watermen, the shouts of the local sail-maker to his young assistant, and the rasp of a saw as a boat was built at the creek's marine railway. The harbor was thronged with boats unloading their catch, though Meredith thought it was not his imagination that fewer boats seemed to be there each tri-year, and smaller ones. The great tonging boats of yesteryear had given way, in many cases, to small skiffs that could be sailed by one or two men. Some of the servants publicly welcomed this opportunity to sail on their own, without a boat-master to watch over them; others watched the trend glumly, either because they recognized that the smaller boats represented the smaller number of oysters available, or because they feared that the Dozen Landsteads would take the same course as its southern neighbors, divorcing servants from their masters. 

But there were still so many boats in the creek as to dazzle the eye. Some of them were runners, busy unloading the final crabs of the season to one of the packing houses. And so Hoopers Island hummed with activity, as it always did, except on the two high sacred days of the year: the Slaves' Autumn Festival and the Masters' Spring Festival. Tomorrow, all boating would cease throughout the Dozen Landsteads; now, on the eve of the festival, the watermen on the runners were practically flinging the crabs onto the wharves in their eagerness to get them unloaded in time. 

But here too Meredith could see no familiar face. 

That left only one place for him to look. He turned his head and saw, as he had expected he would see, the _Elsie Pembroke_ , tied up at the wharf behind Master Simmons's store. 

o—o—o

Meredith lingered on the road for a moment, leaning back against the picket fence across the street from the store, and staring at the boat like a journeyman in love. Captain Pembroke being the sort of boat-master who saw no reason to make changes where none were necessary, he still mastered a log canoe, a type of boat that had evolved from the dugout canoes built by the native Ammippians, before the Ammippians were driven west by the first Landsteader settlers. 

Meredith's father had waxed eloquent about the advantages of a log canoe over other workboats: he had explained how smooth the interior was, allowing the watermen to easily scoop up the oysters. Captain Pembroke's boat was a three-log canoe: just three logs shaped and fitted together to make a thirty-foot boat. The _Elsie Pembroke_ – named after Captain Pembroke's wife – was painted with the tri-colors of the Dozen Landsteads' seal: red for death, yellow for transformation, and green for rebirth. Transformation was colored blue on the seal, but watermen had developed the notion that, if you did not actually paint your boat blue, you would be safe from undergoing the cycle of death/transformation/rebirth in the foreseeable future. 

Now the boat's three triangular sales were furled, but the rising wind was causing the boat to bob on the water. A young man leaned over, inspecting the bottom of the boat, and for a heart-stopping moment, Meredith thought it was Master Pembroke, come to visit his father's boat. But then the young man straightened up, and Meredith realized that it was eighteen-year-old Hallie, the youngest member of the crew that sailed the _Elsie Pembroke_ , other than the apprentice-aged culling boys. 

Captain Pembroke himself – a grizzled, middle-aged boat-master whose gruff exterior belied his deep generosity – was nowhere in sight. Meredith walked across the street and then hesitated, leaning his cheek against the sign that marked the entrance to the yard:   


_Master Simmons_   
_Dry Goods, Notions, Hats, Masters', Servants', and Children's Shoes_   
_Hardware, Chinaware, Woodenware, Groceries, Salt Meats and General Merchandise_   
_If we haven't it, we will get it for you_

  


And then, in smaller letters:   


_Undertaking for all ranks_

  


A peal of laughter broke into Meredith's revery. In the front yard of the store stood Master Simmons, his brother, and several young relatives. The older masters were surrounded by crates that were being packed by the boys, but evidently not fast enough for Master Simmons's liking, for in mock anger, he and his brother had raised one of the boys and was holding him in a threatening manner over a half-constructed coffin. The boy – who was a year or two younger than Meredith – squealed with delight. 

Taking advantage of the moment to avoid detection, Meredith cautiously made his way around the side of the store, past the well, to the wharf at the back. His Golden Hill home being so far from his workplace, Captain Pembroke rented a bedroom from Master Simmons on workdays and docked his boat at the shopkeeper's wharf. Now his boat and Master Simmons's were the only vessels at the store's wharf, though other workboats sailed past on the waters beyond. 

Hallie had disappeared inside the store, leaving the _Elsie Pembroke_ tugging at its lines against the churning waves, its brightly painted body outlined against the passing boats and the dark strip of land over the water: Barren Island. 

The wind had risen yet more in the last few minutes; cold spray bit against Meredith's neck. Yet he stayed where he was, staring at the boat, whose deck was flecked white with a few remaining oyster shells. He envisioned himself stepping onto the boat, taking his post, following orders to unfurl one of the sails . . . 

He shook his head, turning away from the boat. He knew nothing about sailing. Young Master Pembroke had chosen his own path in life. He was not training for the Oyster Navy, like his second-eldest brother; nor would he master his own boat, as his eldest brother did. Unlike his older brothers, Pembroke had no desire to follow the water in these years when the Bay's catches were slowly declining. Meredith's destiny, whatever it might be, did not lie in the same direction as his father's. 

But that had been true all along, even before he vowed his allegiance to Pembroke. 

Now Meredith made his way to the waterside porch of the store, which was more often frequented than the roadside porch, for it was from the water that most of Master Simmons's customers arrived. Meredith found a notice tacked upon the door of the wood-planked store: "Closed for the festival eve and day. No sales till after the holidays." And then, in smaller letters, "Come on in and get yourselves warm." The letters were green, for the sake of any watermen who did not read, green being the symbol for "go." Meredith pushed the door open a small space and slid inside. 

None of the men there noticed him. They were all sitting on the knife-scarred bench that surrounded the stove in the middle of the room. The bench was in the shape of a ring of rebirth, except for a gap to allow folks to enter into the middle area. Directly opposite the gap, the only man who could have seen Meredith easily, Sol, was in the midst of spitting into the flames of the open stove. The other servants were busy passing round a mug – most likely filled with coffee rather than alcohol, for they were all Traditionalists. Meredith quickly closed the door and slid into the shadows. 

All the lamps were doused; the only light in the room came from the stove. Meredith slipped quietly over to the post office near the door. There was no sign of the post-mastress – Master Simmons's formidable wife, who always managed to bully Meredith into spending his precious pocket-money on stamps – and the barred window to the office was shuttered. Meredith unbuttoned his overcoat so that he could pull from his vest pocket the key he kept there. Then he opened the lock on the cubbyhole that was labelled "M. James Hooper." The cubbyhole was empty. 

Behind him, Theo asked, "What're you doing with yourself during our spell of rest, Sol?" 

"Restoring my tired bones," Sol replied, leaning back and resting his hands on his flat belly. 

Meredith stepped softly round the edges of the room, sensing his path, not by sight, but by the smells of what he passed: shoe polish and neat's foot oil, rotting potatoes and sharp onions, tonics and cloth starch, cheese and sardines, linseed oil and tar, kerosene and mast grease, wintergreen candy— At that point, he nearly stumbled over Master Simmons's young apprentice. Meredith supposed the apprentice was meant to be keeping watch over the goods, but the boy had taken the opportunity to curl up asleep on the floor, with a piece of candy in his hand, and his head resting on a half-full bag of corn meal. 

Billy shook his head in response to Sol's remark. "Seems like, every year, we work twice as hard and get half the pay." 

"That ain't the master's fault." Hallie, ever quick to defend Captain Pembroke, spoke fiercely. 

Billy smiled sadly at him. "Honey boy, I ain't speaking no words 'gainst our boat-master. Just telling the truth. Things ain't like they was back in the eighties." 

Theo laughed. "You claiming to be a rebirth of your great-granddaddy, Billy? That's nigh on thirty tri-years ago." 

"No, it ain't." Hallie counted on his fingers. "That's eighty tri-years ago. Eight tri-decades ago. Two hundred and forty sun-circuits—" 

Billy snorted. "Hallie, you can keep your counting to tallying bushels. I know this year is 1962 Fallow. Don't make no difference. Might as well be the 1910s, far as boating's concerned. When you think the High Masters' council's going to let us have power boats, Theo?" 

Theo shook his head. "Council's too busy giving its young masters toys like footer balls. Machinery needed by the watermen ain't important to them. Forget 'bout power boats – I want those mechanical tongs that someone patented just before the 1912 Embargo Act was passed. No more sore backs and aching arms from tonging by hand." 

A new crewman, whom Meredith didn't recognize, shook his head. "And we'd have our certificates of employment taken 'way right quick, 'cause the boat-master would need fewer of us. You trying to get us fired?" 

"Power boats is more important," insisted Billy to Theo. "Think of all the right calm days when we could be tonging oysters." 

"The master of the House of His Master's Kindness wants power boats too," pointed out Sol. "And power dredging to go with it." In the silence that followed, he raised his voice, saying, "Lad, you're as quiet and dark as a dredger boat come night. Didn't hear nor see you till now." 

Meredith stepped forward from where he had been fingering a muskrat trap that hung for sale from the ceiling. "I didn't mean to disturb your conversation, sir." 

"You ain't disturbing nothing that don't deserve disturbing. You looking to find your daddy?" 

"Yes, sir. My father said that he would meet me at the foot of the drawbridge, but he isn't there, and his skiff isn't docked at Back Creek. I thought you might have seen him recently." 

"'Deed I did – seen him at his workplace just this morning, and he gave me this note for you. He figured you'd be coming by here." Sol reached down and pulled a piece of paper out of his rubber boot – probably the driest place he had for storing paper. He offered the note to Meredith, without rising. 

Meredith cautiously came forward. As he reached out his hand to take the note, his overcoat spread open to reveal his blazer. The new crewman, who had just taken hold of the mug, choked on the coffee. The crewman hastily rose to his feet. 

None of the other servants followed suit. With the exception of Sol, the servants were looking at the fish-hooks, the stuffed eagle on the wall, the turpentine, the tins of chewing tobacco, the corsets . . . anything but the young master standing in their midst. 

Meredith tried to ignore his churning stomach, instead concentrating his attention on unfolding and reading the message. It was written in his father's uneven hand and erratic spelling: "Substute keeper sik. Yu come. Yur father, Master James Hooper." 

His father had almost written "Yur daddy," but had scribbled out the servant-style word in time. Meredith looked up. Everybody was still staring at the store's merchandise, other than the new crewman – who was gazing with horror at his fellow servants – and Sol, who was watching Meredith. 

"Thank you, sir," said Meredith to Sol. "Will you be going back to see my father any time soon?" 

Sol shook his head. "Not till Spring Death. You needing a ride out? Believe Master Simmons is sending out goods to your daddy today." 

"Thank you for that information, sir. I'll ask him whether I can ride along in his boat, then." He hesitated, seeking an excuse to linger longer, but most of the crewmen were beginning to shuffle their feet, and the new crewman looked as though he was about to expire from terror. "Goodbye," Meredith said, looking around at the crew, trying to make the farewell general. 

Sol was the only one who bothered to reply to him. "You keep warm and safe, lad, and you give your daddy my respects, hear?" 

"Yes, sir, I'll be glad to," replied Meredith eagerly, relieved to carry out a duty. "May I do anything else for you?" 

In the next moment, he would gladly have thrown himself in front of the rifles of the Second Landstead's dredgers. Billy and Theo exchanged looks, while Hallie simply rolled his eyes. 

Sol, far more patient than the others, said, "Thanks, lad, but there ain't no need. You'd best be getting on your way." 

Meredith, taking the hint, backed away from the warm circle of fellowship. He opened the store's door, which was nearly wrenched from his hand; a moderate gale wind had blown up while he was inside. He swiftly closed the door, then leaned on it to make sure it had shut properly. As he did so, he heard the new crewman say, "Sol, have you gone mad as a 'Mippian in battle, speaking like that to a master? He's making fun at you, certain, calling you 'sir.'" 

Sol said something in a voice too low for Meredith to hear. 

"Him?" The new crewman sounded incredulous. "He don't look nothing like his daddy." 

"Don't speak like him, neither," said Billy. "But he's the one, all right – Jim's son." 

"You mean, Master Hooper's son." Theo's voice was bitter. 

Billy made a sound like spitting. "Mean what I say. Jim was born a servant. He's still a servant, whatever he may think." 

"It's him getting that new religion that messed up his head," suggested Hallie, who had barely been born at the time that the episode happened. "Him and all them Reformed Traditionalists—" 

"Ain't a matter of Traditionalists 'gainst Reformed Traditionalists," Billy insisted. "Even if a man can go in one lifetime from being servant to being master, Jim ain't that man." 

There was a murmur of agreement, and Theo asked, "Why d'you suppose he asked to be raised in rank? He was doing right smart in our crew." 

"Why d'you think?" shot back Billy. "Way I figure it, he wanted a crew of his own." 

"If that was his reason, he's well punished," interjected Hallie. "Ain't a crew in this fleet that'll sail under him." 

"Neither would any boat-master take him as journeyman, back in the days when he was that young. Well, he's burned his own corpse-ashes." Theo sounded satisfied. 

"The lad's who I feel sorry for," said Billy. "Being brought up figuring he's a master, when it's plain to see that he's just like his daddy." 

"That's enough talk," said Sol gruffly. "You boys shouldn't be speaking 'gainst your betters." 

"Our betters?" said Billy incredulously. 

"Servant Sol, you keep your tongue to yourself," said Theo. "You ain't my master." 

"But Jim is his best pal." Hallie sounded hesitant. "We shouldn't be talking like that 'gainst Sol's pal." 

"He ain't my pal." There was no mistaking the bitterness in Sol's voice. "He's ranked as a master now; masters can't have servants as pals. But he was my pal once, and he followed the water along with us, over many a year, so there ain't no call for talk 'gainst him. He's catched his fair share of oysters and crabs and fish; it's his right to do what his faith and his conscience tell him." 

There was an acknowledging murmur that sounded like it was more of dissent than of agreement. Reading his fellow crewmen's mood, Sol said, "Ain't worth talking 'bout what we can't change. You hear that wind out there? Sounds like the nor'west blow has arrived. Oh my blessed, I sure am glad the master let us take the day off." 

That remark brought loud calls of agreement, and Theo began talking about what the annual autumn storm had been like in his great-granddaddy's day. 

Meredith, turning away from the door, almost tripped over the watermen's tongs, leaning against the wall by the door. One of the tongs still had an oyster shell stuck within its tines. Absent-mindedly, Meredith took off his mittens, pried the shell off the tine, and nearly threw it in the great pile of shells near the porch. Master Simmons bought shells from the oyster packing houses and then resold them to companies that used the shells for road paving or fertilizer or chicken grit. 

Then, on a whim, Meredith curled his hand round the shell. Letting his rucksack lie sheltered against the leeward side of an empty barrel, he shoved the shell and his mittens into his overcoat pockets and stepped off the porch. 

The wind was hard as a culler's hammer now. The water had nearly emptied; most of the boat-masters, seeing the signs of the coming storm, had retreated to harbors and coves. Meredith, who had endured worse winds than this over the years, walked slowly toward the store's wharf, his thoughts on matters other than the weather. 

It had never occurred to him to call Sol anything other than "sir." Whatever Sol's perspective might be on Servant Jim's transformation into Master James Hooper, Meredith knew that Sol was the closest thing his father had left to a friend. And so, since Meredith called his father "sir," he had also called his father's friend "sir." His father had never forbidden him from doing so, and Sol had not seemed disturbed by Meredith's manner of address. 

But Meredith had not seen Sol in over three seasons, he recalled now. Perhaps the rules for proper address had changed, now that Meredith was beyond his apprentice years. Perhaps it would be safer to address Sol as "Servant Solomon." That would still be respectful, wouldn't it? Or would it overemphasize Sol's rank in relation to the young master who spoke to him? 

Meredith sighed. The person he should be addressing such questions to, he was fully aware, was his liege-master. But Pembroke would treat any such question as a sign of weakness in him. Meredith supposed he would have to ask his own father instead – yet he was growing overly old for seeking answers from his father. Most of his fellow students treated their confirmation ceremony as a time when they broke away from the care of their parents. As journeymen, they still could not own property or run a House or business in their own right. But they were old enough to work under their liege-master, to study at university, and – with their liege-master's permission – to marry. They were even old enough to father children. 

Meredith reached the shore. Master Simmons had cleared out all the Bay grass from the shoreline, so the shoreline was bare except for mud and the usual assortment of shells. Meredith fingered the shell in his pocket as he stared out at the churning waves, his eyes blinking against the harsh wind. He had wished, many a time, that he had never been fathered, or at least had been fathered after the revocation of the Act of Celadon and Brun. If that had happened, then his life's path would be clear. As it was . . . 

The oyster shell was cutting into his tightened fingers now. He stared out at the water, where the crew of a lone shallop was struggling to reach shore. In a sudden and uncharacteristic fury, he took the oyster from his pocket and prepared to hurl it into the waves. 

"That's right. Give it back to the babes." 

He whirled around, shaken, the oyster still clenched in his hand. Sitting on the end of the wharf, nearly hidden by the bobbing stern of the log canoe, was an old man. He was seated on an upended crate, with a rugged cane in his hand, and he wore a watermen's cap. His white eyebrows bristled fiercely as he said, "Them fools in thar is talkin' 'bout them drudgers." 

His accent was so servant-thick that it took Meredith a moment to realize what he was saying. Then he responded with automatic politeness, "No, sir. The watermen inside the store are talking about the weather." 

The old waterman shook his head. "No, sir. No, sirree. Them tongers is talkin' 'bout the drudgers. Them tongers is blamin' the drudgers 'cause the arsters is all gone from the Bay. Yes, sir, that's what they's talkin' 'bout. You see if I'm wrong, young slave." 

For a moment, Meredith stood very still and silent. Then he said, "The oysters aren't all gone from the Bay, sir." 

"Yes, they is," the old waterman said firmly. "All gone, none left. No arster boats neither. They's all gone 'way, 'cause them tongers didn't give the arsters back to the babes." 

Meredith looked down at the shell in his hand. It held no trace of whatever oyster had once inhabited it. "The babes?" he said. 

"Out thar." The old waterman waved his hand expansively, indicating the stretch of water in front of them and the Bay beyond. "Waitin' for their old shells. Can't be reborn till they's given the bodies of the dead, y'see. Got to be given the dead so they can be transformed and live." 

"Like burying corpses, you mean?" Meredith asked cautiously. He dimly remembered hearing the chaplain give a sermon on this at his confirmation: about how, in ancient times, before the Reformed Traditionalists popularized the practice of burning corpses into ashes, the corpses of men were always buried and transformed by the earth into elements that would be used to create food for the living, just as men's souls could only be reborn if they died first. 

The old waterman nodded vigorously. "You understand. You understand, High Master." 

"I'm not—" 

"You understand," the old waterman repeated firmly. "You see. You see that the babes need their old bodies. They need the bodies back, if they's to grow up." 

Meredith stared again at the shell. Then he drew back his hand and threw the shell into the waves – not with fury this time, but with the careful calculation of a boy skipping shells upon the water. 

The shell skipped once, twice, thrice over the rough waves before it fell in. The old waterman cackled. "That's it. That's one more babe reborn. You tell them tongers – yeah, boy, and the drudgers too. You tell them all, young servant. You tell them," he said as Meredith turned breathlessly toward him. "You tell them when they place ya under the ground." 

o—o—o

Meredith paused on the porch of the store, wondering what in the name of all that was sacred he was doing. Did he really mean to lecture a group of experienced watermen on the need to throw their empty shells back into the Bay? Just because he'd been given that mission by a crazy old man who called him slave and High Master and servant, and who thought Meredith could give lectures after his corpse had been buried in the earth? 

He looked back toward the wharf, but the old waterman was nowhere to be seen now. Biting his lip, Meredith made his way over to the shuttered window and peered through one of the gaps in the wood. If Sol was alone now, perhaps Meredith could ask him what the old waterman had meant. Most likely the old waterman had been making reference to some simple maritime matter that Sol could explain. 

But all of the _Elsie Pembroke_ 's older servants were still there, sitting in the warmth of the fire and fellowship, though the complaints about the weather had given way to more important complaints. 

Sol, his feet propped up on a short barrel of lard, was saying, ". . . not like it was when I was a young boy. Why, there must have been a thousand sail on the Bay back then. Time was when you could cross the whole of Back Creek just by walking across the decks of the runners crowding in to unload their oysters. Now there's fewer and fewer boats each year, tonging the rocks—" 

"Ain't no rocks left to tong," inserted Billy sourly, turning to spit into the stove fire. "Them fucking dredgers from the Second 'Stead have stripped the rocks clean. You know them rocks off Smoke Point? I've been tonging them all my life, and my daddy tonged them, and my granddaddy and great-granddaddy. We'd keep the big oysters and throw back in the little ones, so's they could grow up to the next sun-circuit. And we'd leave behind plenty of big ones too – you can't pull everything up with a pair of tongs. Well, the master sent me out there in his yawl last week to sound out how the rocks are doing this season, and you know what I found? Them dredgers slipped in this season and licked the rocks clean. Didn't leave a single oyster there. Won't be any oysters there next autumn, that's for sure." 

There was a dark growl of anger, and the crewman whom Meredith had never met before shook his head slowly. "Dredgers just don't think. Sure, they'll get a fat profit from their dredging this sun-circuit, and the next, and the next. But what then? They'll dredge the Third 'Stead clean soon, and then what'll they do?" 

"They'll go up-Bay, with their thieving ways, and begin stripping other 'steads," Sol replied flatly. "Why do you think they're on our side of the Bay anyway, Zeb? They licked clean all the rocks in their own 'stead. They just don't care whether they destroy all the oysters in this Bay. Guess they figure they'll be dead by then." 

"It's our lives they're killing." Zeb thumped a molasses barrel with his fist. "And I ain't just talking 'bout dead bodies. My old boat-master, he said it weren't worth his while to go out boating in the cold months no more. He'll still go crabbing in the summer, but come autumn, he lets us all go, tells us to find other boat-masters to serve. He can afford to take time off from waterman work, being a third-ranker and all – his liege-master will give him other work to do. But if you boys hadn't persuaded your boat-master to take me on, my little kids would've been crying for their supper by now." 

"Maybe we should all up and quit," reflected Billy, staring down at his hands, which were twisted and gnarled. "Ain't the best life for a servant. Working from dawn to dusk, sleeping on the boats for days on end, wind and water cutting our hands to bits as we lift tongs so heavy that they draw a man closer to his rebirth with every heft . . ." 

"Don't know 'bout you boys, but I'd die if you took me off the water," Sol said quietly. "I was born to be a waterman, just as surely as I was born to be a servant. And it was a good life – hard but good – before the wars began with them dredgers." 

Theo, stretching his arms wide, stood up to scoop soup from an iron pot on the stovetop. From the smell, Meredith guessed it was oyster stew, well seasoned. "Not all the dredgers," said Theo. "Got to admit that. Some of them dredgers, they keep to their side of the Bay just fine. It's Carruthers and his pirates that are stirring up the fuss." 

"Comrade Carruthers." Billy spoke the words bitterly, like they were poison. "He's no comrade of mine, that's for sure. I'd just as soon shoot the man as spit in his face." 

"No chance of neither." Theo shook his head as he settled back down onto the bench. "I swear, those arms they got must be smuggled in from foreign parts. They've got twice the range as we do with our rifles." 

"Maybe we should go to war," suggested Hallie. "The whole 'stead, I mean, not just the watermen." 

Billy snorted. "With Master Forde named as our minister of war? He'd sleep through the war. He's so old, he takes naps in the afternoon." 

"We'll be getting new blood soon, like as not, if what I'm hearing from the House of Mollusc servants is true," suggested Theo. "You think young Master Rudd might name a new minister of war when he comes to power? Or even declare war himself?" 

There were noncommittal shrugs around the room. Sol said, "War won't fix nothing. The Second 'Stead's High Master needs to bring Carruthers to heel, that's all. No point in us fighting the Second 'Stead if Carruthers just goes and does whatever he wants anyways." 

"Them fucking rifles," Theo said gloomily. "I'd shoot Carruthers myself, if I could. But he never comes out on the boats himself – just sends other men to do his dirty work." 

"Hey," said Zeb, leaning forward. "He's nearer than that." 

Sol frowned. "What d'you mean?" 

Zeb looked round, and Meredith automatically froze in place. Then Zeb leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Hit him where it hurts. His boy's at school, right here on the island. If we get rid of his heir, Carruthers'll be too busy mourning to send out his boats." 

"Don't see how that follows," said Billy, but there was an uncertain note to his voice that caused Meredith, without thinking, to step over and slam the door open. 

All the men jumped, as though they'd been caught by the Oyster Navy with a full haul of one-inch oysters. Meredith was careful to look only at Sol, whose thunderous expression suggested that he'd been ready to carve up Zeb with a shucking knife for his suggestion. 

"I'm sorry to bother you again, sir," said Meredith, "but I was wondering – did my father say anything about my new rifle?" 

"Your rifle?" Sol glanced at Zeb, who had turned pale. 

"Yes, sir, he said that I could have a new rifle this term. All of the third-rankers at my school are required to have rifles now, whether or not we're serving as backs. We're supposed to be ready to defend the school in case of attack." He took a step back. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you, sir. I'll ask my father about my rifle when I see him." 

He turned and nearly walked into a waterman who had just entered and was shaking his wet cap. Seeing Meredith's blazer, he bowed his head and remained respectfully silent until the door was closed. 

Meredith, standing behind the closed door, heard Zeb ask plaintively, "You figure he was listening?" 

"'Course he was listening, you fool," said Theo. "You really think you could get away with murdering a master? _The first-ranked heir to a 'stead?_ Sweet blood, you're lucky Jim's son only threatened you. Our master would've flogged you bloody if he'd heard what you was planning." 

"Masters always stick together," Sol said in a kindly voice. "Best not to forget that, Zeb. Don't matter whether the masters is fighting each other for oysters. If a servant kills a master from a rival 'stead, he'll pay for it in blood, and his own master will take the blood from him, with relish. Hey, Wilbur." He turned his attention to the newcomer. 

"Hey, Sol." Meredith, now standing by the window, saw the newcomer squeeze his cap in an uneasy manner. "Boys, I don't rightly know how to say this. Seems like a rotten thing to do, to drag you away from this nice fire, but . . . Well, you know we lost Amos in that fight with the dredgers last week, and now Purnell and Hansel and our culling boys are all down with influenza from the drenching we got when we was trying to catch up with them dredgers – and wouldn't you know, but Calvin chose this day to break his ankle. Tripped over a decoy on his porch, the young fool. That leaves just the boat-master and me." 

"Should be enough," said Theo. "You tong, and your master sails. You cull when you can. Your boat-master not going to leave you time for that?" 

"Oh, he'll leave me time, and he ain't too proud to help with the culling neither. And his extra boat is one of those little sharpies, so one-man sailing is a breeze. Thing is, though, the High Master has sent down word to our boat-master by way of the fleet master that he wants to take along three days' worth of oyster bushels to the High Masters' council. And he needs the oysters by tomorrow, so . . ." 

There was a groan of sympathy from the men. Sol, still sitting back with his feet on the barrel, said in an unperturbed manner, "Why, honey, the boys and me was just saying here that we're bored out of our skulls with nothing to do. You take a man away from the water, and he wastes away. Ain't that right, boys?" 

The other servants had already begun to rise to their feet. "We're happy to help, Wilbur," said Billy. "We know you'd do the same for us." 

"You're good men, all of you," said the newcomer, gratitude clear in his voice. "My boat-master, he says he'll pay you twice the going rate for this favor. He already cleared it with your master, but Captain Pembroke said he wouldn't make a dog try to gather that many bushels in one day. Said it was up to you whether to try." 

"Seems to me," said Theo, reaching for his oilskin overcoat, "that we'd all be better off if we just woke up one day and found the masters all missing. Not that I have anything 'gainst your boat-master or mine, but life surely would go smoother." 

Sol, now risen to his feet and fully clothed in his overcoat and hat, slapped Theo on his back. "Boy, you may just get your wish." 

"What do you mean, Sol?" called out Hallie. 

"I mean, at the rate these masters are making fools of themselves, I expect them all to be born into their next lives as servants." Sol grinned, and the watermen left the store amidst shouts of laughter, not noticing Meredith, who was standing quietly in the shadows once more.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

The Bay crashed against the lamphouse with the force of a culling hammer. 

The hammer was the wind, shrieking as it sought to break in the lamphouse windows. The hammer was the rain, pouring down so heavily that the four giant water-tanks within the lamphouse were soon filled with roof-water, causing the remaining water to stream off the roof like the great falls in western Mip. But most of all, the hammer was the Bay itself, smashing into the spindly spider-legs of the screwpile lamphouse, thundering against the windows of the hexagon-shaped cottage atop the legs, and making the lantern-room atop the cottage shudder with each passing wave. 

Meredith, running from one window in the lantern-room to the other, felt the familiar combination of thrill and fear at this show of the Bay's force. He was well aware that, in his lifetime alone, three screwpile lamphouses had been destroyed: two by storms, one by a steamship that had missed seeing the warning light and had plowed straight into the lamphouse. In all three cases, the keepers and their resident families had been killed. 

But still there was the thrill of feeling as though he were in the palm of some giant Vovimian god, who raged and appeared likely to dash Meredith to pieces at any moment, yet was undeniably worthy of awe for his power. 

Reaching another window, Meredith wiped it free of the mist that was threatening to obscure the lamplight. The arrival of the northwest blow, only an hour after Meredith had reached the lamphouse at dusk, had caused the temperature to plummet suddenly – so suddenly that the windows inside the lamphouse were fogging up, even though Meredith's father had closed the door to the staircase at the center of the lantern-room. The staircase spiralled down past the second storey to the first storey of the cottage, where the kitchen's coal stove valiantly struggled to stay alive, though its ventilation pipe was clogged with stormwater. 

So Meredith wiped and wiped, while behind him the eye-blinding lantern revolved, sending its message of white-red-white: warning – death – warning. 

Over the bellow of the waves and the rhythmic gong of the fog-bell downstairs, Meredith did not hear his father enter the lantern-room. He turned his head to see that his father had dumped a new load of dry cloths on the floor next to the doorway. From the looks of it, the cloths were his father's own shirts. His father was staring at the windows. "Blast!" he said. 

Meredith nearly smiled at this appropriate euphemism. "What is it?" he shouted back; it was the only way to be heard in the storm. 

"Ice!" His father gestured toward the windows. 

Meredith looked where his father was pointing and saw to his horror that his father was right. The Bay water – crashing so high that it was reaching the lantern-room windows – had begun to freeze on the windows, turning the crystal-clear panes grey, and obscuring the warning light. "What can we do?" cried Meredith. 

"Chip it off," said his father. Already he was pulling something from his pocket, apparently in preparation for this eventuality. It was a shucking knife, Meredith saw. 

Meredith peered out. "But there's ice on the deck too! And waves are still crashing there! We'll be swept off!" 

"No choice," said his father. "Look." 

He pointed toward the window facing north. Meredith, squinting, just managed to see a flicker of bobbing light between the black waves of the night-storm. 

"Steamer from Balmer," his father explained as he wrapped a rope round his waist. "Needs our help." 

Meredith swung round to look toward the southeast. Throughout the night, like the warm wink of a firefly, he had seen periodically the glow of light from Richland Point, where his school lay. The school was located on the west side of the island, facing the Bay. On the east side of Hoopers Island, which faced the Honga River, the great Balmer steamboat would be sheltered somewhat from the northwest blow and could make its way safely to the steamboat wharf at Hickory Cove, on the middle island, less than a mile from the school. 

But the steamer's path south was a narrow one; if it went too far east, it would founder in the shallow waters near the island. The steamer depended primarily on the warnings of the Hoopers Lamphouse to determine its position. 

"Whole lot of folk on that steamer," said his father. He was tying the loose end of the rope to a bracket on the wall. "Families too. They'll be counting on us to show them the way." 

Meredith, his mind filled with visions of children drowning, began to grab his overcoat as his father approached the door that led to the deck circling the lantern-room. His father shook his head, though. 

"Now, you stand here and hold onto this door," he instructed. "Keep it as closed as you can. I need that rope to come through the doorway – it'll help keep me from falling off the deck. But you got to be sure that the wind stays out of this room. Otherwise, it'll blow out the light." 

Meredith nearly made the mistake of looking back at the great lantern, revolving behind them. He said, "Yes, sir," and opened the door for his father, who had already hurried himself into his overcoat, scarf, and gloves. 

The wind screamed into the room; the lantern light flickered dangerously. Putting his shoulder against the door, Meredith just managed to close it. But he could not close it entirely, for that rope which was now jammed between the door and the doorpost was his father's safety-line, like the line harpooned by the sea-coast guard to men on sinking ships. 

Struggling to keep the door from flinging open again, Meredith watched his father stagger as he met the full force of the wind. For a moment it seemed that the wind alone would carry him off the deck, but he caught hold of the rope and steadied himself. Behind Meredith, the lantern-light flickered wildly in the wind. 

Dimly the steamer's lights showed briefly. The steamboat was due east now, very close to shallow water. The fog-bell boomed its message of warning. 

And then the bell stopped. 

His father, clinging to the rope as waves crashed around his knees on the icy deck, lifted his head. His eyes met Meredith's. Then, with the careful deliberation of a waterman assessing odds, he brought his knife down and sliced the rope neatly in half. 

"Go!" he mouthed to Meredith, and Meredith, the choice taken from him, pulled back the strand of broken rope and slammed the door shut. He turned— 

—and his eyes met the lantern-light full-on. 

He closed his eyes, but it was too late; when he opened them again, staring at the floor, all he could see was the dazzle of the light, remembered by his eyes like an image from a past life. 

He groped his way forward, slipping once on the wet floor and falling to his knees so hard that he bit his tongue and tasted blood. He crawled after that, finding his way by touch to the doorway to the stairwell. Then he stood up— 

—and immediately tripped over the pile of cloths there. 

He just managed to keep from falling on his head by twisting; then he shouted in pain as the fall carried him past the landing and down the steps. He slid on his back, all the way down the spiral staircase to the next landing, as though he were returning to a previous life. Then he lay still, feeling red pain shoot through his back and limbs. 

The lamphouse shuddered under the wind. Faintly, he heard the whistle of the steamer, like a plea for help. 

He managed to claw his way to his feet. He still could not see, but he knew where the fog-bell was located: just beyond the second-storey landing, facing south. He found the bell, then located the winding mechanism. 

No time now to rewind the automated mechanism so that the machine would ring the bell automatically. The steamer was too close to the shoals for delay. Falling to his knees again, he found the clapper and began ringing the bell by hand, over and over and over. The sound of the great bell, so close to his ears, nearly deafened him. His mind was filled with images of his father on the icy deck, battered by wind and rain and wave, taking the full force of the Bay's fury without aid of his lifeline. 

The strain of reaching over to ring the bell was making his back ache even more than before, but he dared not stop. His eyes were beginning to clear; he could see dimly the flash of the lamphouse's light upon the scudding dark clouds and slicing rain. But if he had seen the steamer's lights only dimly, it was possible that the steamer could not see the lamphouse's light; if so, the steamboat would be depending on the fog-bell alone to determine its location. He rang the bell again and again, nearly sobbing from the effort and from the thought of what might be happening to his father. 

And then – oh my blessed! – his father was beside him, gasping, "Keep ringing! Keep ringing, lad!" His father began hefting the great handle that would wind the ringing mechanism. 

It took five minutes, five long minutes before he had wound the mechanism. He signalled Meredith, and Meredith crawled back to let the mechanized bell do its own work. Then Meredith rose and flung himself into his father's arms. 

"I thought I had lost you!" he cried, burying his face in his father's shoulder. 

"Thought I'd lost you too." His father held him tight. "Saw you fall down the stairs. Then I heard the bell, and I knew— Should have known all along you'd never fail to do your duty. . . . Look!" 

Meredith turned his head toward the window facing south, just in time to see, through a break in the storm, the lights of the steamer disappear as the boat passed round the southern tip of Hoopers Island, entering the mouth of the Honga River. 

o—o—o

Meredith's father gave deep thought to what his son said before replying, "Any second-ranked masters in the 'bus who was pals with you? Or with your liege-master?" 

Meredith hesitated before saying, "Master Davenham is civil to me. I'm not sure he saw what happened, though; he was busy talking to Master Oates." 

His father nodded as he turned his attention back to the prisms of the lantern's lenses, which he was polishing with a chamois-skin cloth. "Here's how I tell it, then. If you find yourself like that 'gain, then you just get up on your feet and say in a right loud voice: 'Master Davenham, would you like me to rescue that poor little gal who just fell into the Bay?' That way, all the masters in the bus will hear you speaking, and there's bound to be one or three who is with enough honor that he'd make the driver stop the bus to help." 

Meredith smiled, resting his cheek against the tip of the long broom handle. "Sir, that's perfect! I wish that you'd been there." 

"Well, now, it's just a matter of keeping your wits 'bout you." His father paused to breathe on the glass before polishing the next spot. "But you ask your liege-master for his advice. He's second-ranked, so he's bound to have a few tricks of his own." 

Meredith's smile disappeared. He bowed his head, concentrating his attention on sweeping clear the deck. He had already finished most of his work for the morning: polishing the windows of the lantern-room, dusting the sashes, and sweeping the stairs. All that was left was the deck. 

His father, who had taken charge of all the duties connected with the great prism-lamp, peered at him, saying, "Look to your work, lad – you're scattering dust up toward the lamp. Be sure you clean up the floor good. We don't want the fleet master cussing us when he comes to inspect." 

"Yes, sir." Meredith quickly returned his attention to the broom. 

After a time, his father said, "Everything going well at school? No hard times with your liege-master?" 

"No, sir." He kept his head bowed as he spoke. He could not remember why he had originally hidden his school troubles from his father; most likely it was because he could not bear to disappoint his father's high hopes for his performance at school. But he had developed a new motive in the past sun-circuit: fear that his father would report to Captain Pembroke on his son's lackadaisical performance as a liege-master, and that Master Pembroke would be punished. Meredith often wondered how other liegemen managed to keep their oath to serve their liege-masters faithfully, under circumstances like this, but of course there was no one he could ask. 

"That's finished," said his father, stepping back to admire the prism-lens, which shifted rainbow colors across his face: red, blue, green . . . "You close those curtains now – and make sure they're tight." 

Meredith leapt to obey. Behind him, his father pulled a great linen hood over the prism-lens, putting it to sleep for the day. Off in the distance, a whistle sounded: the steamboat, making its way back to Balmer. 

o—o—o

"Father," said Meredith, "how can you consider yourself a master when you do servants' work?" 

His father, who had been laboriously writing an entry in the lamphouse's official log, paused and frowned. "Servants' work?" 

Meredith spread his hand to indicate the collection of working tools. "Just think of what you do each morning: You rub off the crust that has formed at the top of the lamp's wick. You clean the float strainers. You put oil in the lamp . . . and then you lug that heavy lamp upstairs. You polish the lamp brass, the lamp ventilators, the lamp reflectors . . ." 

His father was smiling now. "Does seem like I'm still at the culling board, don't it? It's all a matter of where your mind is set, Meredith. I'm keeper of the Hoopers Lamphouse. I'm master of all this—" He spread his arms wide, in the same manner that Meredith had. "If I get down on my knees and scrub a floor, it don't make me any less a master than if your liege-master had to serve himself his own food in a trench during some battle, 'cause you wasn't there to serve him." 

Meredith stared down at the paper he had been drawing upon, trying to think. If he considered what he did for Rudd to be a master's work . . . But always there was Rudd's voice, ridiculing him, addressing him as only a despised servant would be addressed. If Meredith could only scrub floors for Master Pembroke instead. . . . 

"You're third-ranked; you've never had a liegeman," he said, and then instantly regretted the remark as he looked up and saw how his father's face tightened. 

But his father's voice was calm as he said, "No, and maybe I won't never get one, even if I rise in rank. Maybe I won't get me a servant neither. It don't matter. —What's that you're drawing?" 

Meredith picked up the paper and displayed it. It was part of a series of sketches he had begun making of the Bay's wildlife when he was quite young. He was not a good enough artist to make his living from his drawings, but he had what his tutor had called "a scientific eye," which captured details. He had found that his sketches provided as much scientific information about the wildlife as his carefully written records of them. 

"Now, ain't that nice." His father had come over to look. "You shown those to your liege-master yet?" 

"I just made them," he said, hedging. 

"Your liege-master's going to be right proud of you when he sees those, along with all those notes you been taking about when the birds come back each autumn and how many crabs you see each sun-circuit and such like. Think notes like that might get you into the university at Hurlock?" 

Meredith rolled his pencil lightly over the plover he had been drawing. "I've been thinking, actually, of applying to the Second Landstead University, sir, rather than the Third Landstead University." 

"Why you want to do that?" said his father with surprise. "Ain't your liege-master going to 'tend our university?" 

So was Rudd . . . and he would be at the Third Landstead University for two sun-circuits before Pembroke arrived. "The Second Landstead University has a better program in history, sir." Then, seeing his father frown, Meredith added, "It's right on the shore of the Bay. The Third Landstead University is in Hurlock, well into the mainland – nowhere near any of the Bay's tributaries." 

Meredith's father's expression cleared. This was an argument he could understand. "Hard to be away from the water," he agreed. "And with you making all those studies of the Bay . . ." He waved his hand over the papers. "Well, as long as it's what your liege-master wants too." 

Meredith, who had not yet figured out a way to raise the subject with Pembroke, said hesitantly, "Then I have your permission, sir?" 

His father smiled as he sat back down on the chair next to his writing desk. "You're a journeyman now; you don't need anyone's permission but your liege-master's. But I know you'll do me proud, whatever it is you decide." 

Meredith's eye drifted over to the window, where a flock of geese was flying by. "Sometimes I think it would have been better if I'd stayed here and become your journeyman." 

His father continued to smile. "And been as alone as I am? Son, you're meant for better things. . . . No, you listen." He waved his hand as Meredith tried to speak. "I don't have a liegeman. I don't have no servants. Maybe I never will. But I got a son. You know, I once thought it mattered a lot whether I did a master's work or a servant's work. Now I ain't so sure. But one thing I'm figuring, certain. If I hadn't been made a master, you'd never have got the chance to be making all those pretty pictures and writing down those notes I can't half read." He waved his hand toward the glass-enclosed bookcase where Meredith's notebooks were stored. "Some day, you're going to be a right important master, 'cause of all that work you're doing. And maybe you'll be able to pass on what you've learned to a liegeman, and maybe you'll be able to pass on what you've learned to a child. Maybe, maybe not. But folks, they're gonna look at you and say, 'Ain't he remarkable! He done all this, and yet he don't have one hundred percent masters' blood in his veins, like as we do.' And then maybe some other lad who's just now being reborn will get the chance you got, to better himself. You'll be giving him that chance, by the work you do as a master." 

It was a long speech, an abnormally long speech from Meredith's father. And at the end of it, the two of them simply sat in silence, listening to the baying of the geese heading south. Finally Meredith's father said, more quietly, "Daddies always try to live out their dreams through their sons. Don't want to make you into nothing more than my tool, Meredith." 

"You're not," said Meredith softly. "You know you're not, sir. It's what I want as well." 

"Well, then," said his father, and turned his attention back to painstakingly writing down the letters that Meredith could have written in a flash. 

o—o—o

Meredith emerged from the outhouse, rubbing his bottom as he endeavored to wake it. His father, who was standing at the rail, checking his long fishing line, laughed when he saw what Meredith was doing. "Bit warmer doing that at school, ain't it?" 

The porcelain chamber-pots that the students used weren't much of an improvement over the lamphouse's outhouse, but Meredith said only, "At least the Bay isn't rough today. I hate when the waves hit my bottom." He looked back at the outhouse, whose toilet hung over the side of the lamphouse, open only to the Bay's waters. 

His father chuckled softly. "Better than trying to do it in a boat that's heaving across the waves. Look now – ain't the Bay something remarkable after a storm?" He waved his hand to indicate the broad expanse of the water. The Bay was so smooth and calm on this day, a week after the storm, that it resembled a looking glass. Above it, the sky was so deep a blue that it looked like a second Bay, hiding creatures in its depths. 

"Remarkable," agreed Meredith, leaning against the railing. He cast a glance at the old oyster barrels nearby, cut in half and filled with earth. They looked as though they had weathered the storm well. Come spring, his father would plant seeds in them, until, by Summer Transformation, the lamphouse would look like a greenhouse, with vines and vegetables and fruits overflowing onto the broad deck that encircled the first story. 

"Just the day for a sail," his father said, and Meredith could hear the longing in his voice. 

Meredith picked at the storm-weathered railing, half considering in his mind whether to paint it before he returned to school. "Father," he said, "do you think, if I asked, Sol might be willing to teach me—?" 

But his father was distracted from the conversation. "Hey, there!" he said. "Postal boat's arrived." Hooking his line fast, he hurried over to the side of the lamphouse where the postal boat was bobbing in the waters below. 

"You're early this week!" shouted down Meredith's father. 

"Ordered to be." The waterman servant who delivered the post was more than usually laconic. "Stand by." He stuffed the letters into a watertight canister, attached a line, and then, with a great heave of the arm, threw the canister upwards. 

Meredith's father caught it on first try. "How they doing on the island?" he asked as he took out the letters and tossed the canister back down to the postal deliverer. "Everyone survive the storm okay?" 

But the postal deliverer was busy turning his jib to the wind; he made no reply. Meredith's father looked down at the letter in his hand. "This is from your liege-master, Meredith. Must be for you." 

He had never received a letter before from Pembroke. Eagerly he tore open the envelope, but his eagerness faded as he saw the salutation and opening words. "It's for you," he said to his father. "He's writing for Captain Pembroke." 

"Well, now, you read it aloud," his father replied. "I ain't got my glasses with me." 

What he meant was that Meredith was a far better reader than he was. Meredith read aloud, "'Dear Master Hooper, I am writing to you on behalf of my father, Captain Pembroke, who is unable to take up pen at this time. You may not be aware that he was badly injured during the recent storm, in a failed attempt to save his crewman, Servant William—'" 

Meredith stopped reading abruptly. He looked up at his father, who was staring out at the upward reaches of the Bay, his eyes narrowed against the morning glare. "Go on," he said. 

Pembroke's characteristically terse style of writing nonetheless did justice to the narrative. Captain Pembroke, hearing that his crew had volunteered to help the other captain gather oysters for the High Master, had offered to take everyone out on his own boat, since his crew had more familiarity with sailing it. The other captain had agreed, and with the hard work of everyone present, they had managed to bring ashore several loads of oysters, despite the choppy water. 

But on the last trip home, after dark, they were caught by the full force of the northwest blow. Billy was swept overboard, but managed to cling to a rock above water. Not wishing to risk bringing the _Elsie Pembroke_ close to the rocks, Captain Pembroke tried to reach Billy by sailing to him on his yawl, but the small boat was dashed by the waves onto the rocks, crushing Captain Pembroke against the hard stone. Within seconds, Sol had stripped down and dived off the _Elsie Pembroke_ , into the now furious storm-waters. He managed to save Captain Pembroke, at the cost of having his own leg bashed against the rock, but Billy had been swept away by the same wave that destroyed the yawl. His lifeless body drifted onto the shore of Hoopers Island the following day. 

Sol was recovering at home and was expected to live. Captain Pembroke had hovered near death for several days, but it was now thought that he would survive. His health had been badly broken, though, and the doctor's assessment was that he was likely to remain an invalid. 

"'Because my father is unlikely to be able to return to captaining, his liege-master has released him from all his duties,'" Meredith read aloud. "'The title of Supervisor of the Lights of Hoopers Island and Barren Island has been handed down to my eldest brother, who will tell you in due time if he has need of your services.'" Meredith stopped again, caught by the word "if." 

Meredith's father continued to gaze out at the water, his eyes watering in the wind. He cleared his throat. "Go on. Anything else?" 

"No, sir. Just a sentence saying that his father is still barely conscious but sent a message of regret that he can no longer remain your liege-master. Master Pembroke will write to you when he knows more." Meredith carefully folded the letter and tried to think of something to say. Out on the Bay, the gulls wheeled and dove over the calm waters. 

His father finally broke the silence. "That's a good liege-master you have, writing to tell me himself, amidst everything else he's got to do at this time." 

"Maybe Captain Pembroke asked him to write," Meredith suggested. 

"Maybe." His father cleared his throat. "Well, it's time we was both in bed. Got to be up in time to tend the light. You go now – I just want to check this line." 

"Yes, sir," murmured Meredith. 

He made his way slowly up the spiral staircase to his bedroom on the second floor, across from the fog-bell. He poured oil into the lamp there, checked that the matches were nearby, and spent a minute fiddling with the cloth covering the bed-stand. Then he picked up his copy of _Remigeus's Sayings_ and read a few lines from it. Three minutes later, he could not say what words he had read. 

White sunlight poured into the room, falling across the white paint on the iron bedstead and the white coverlet on the bed. Meredith pushed the bed back from the wall, opened the window, and looked down. His father still stood at the railing below, his head bowed. 

Meredith rested his crossed arms on the window-frame and stared across the waters toward Barren Island, where the gulls were weaving. It had been a long time since he had set foot on the island. He supposed it was unlikely he would ever visit there again. 

o—o—o

Meredith was born on Barren Island. His father had been a Hoopers Island waterman, working as a servant under Captain Pembroke; his mother had worked within Captain Pembroke's household on Barren Island before her marriage. After Master James Hooper's wife died, Captain Pembroke's wife took Master Hooper's son into her own household, for she had recently lost a baby and was able to assuage her grief by nursing the baby of her husband's liegeman. 

These were the final years of Barren Island's community; shoreline erosion was causing the villagers there to move to nearby Hoopers Island or to the mainland. Barren Island, like Hoopers Island, lay within the boundaries of the Third Landstead's heirship House, the House of Mollusc; because of this, many of Barren Island's former inhabitants drifted naturally toward Golden Hill. As Captain Pembroke made plans to move his own household to Golden Hill, he sought work for his liegeman, but in vain; nobody in the Hoopers Island fleet wanted Meredith's father on their boat. 

Captain Pembroke was second-ranked, not by virtue of his boat-mastery, but by virtue of the fact that he was also Supervisor of the Lights of Hoopers Island and Barren Island. Having failed to find a waterman's job for his liegeman, Captain Pembroke appointed him as keeper of the beacons on and near Barren Island, which served as guides for boats. Thus Meredith's father became the last man living on Barren Island. 

Meredith became the last boy there. By the time that Captain Pembroke moved his household to Golden Hill, his third son had been born, and his wife had transferred her affections to her own baby. Meredith was old enough to be weaned, and was self-sufficient enough that he needed little guidance during the day. And so the Pembrokes sailed away, leaving Master Hooper and his son alone on the island. 

Meredith's earliest memories began then: of being on the island with his father. He did not think of himself as being alone with his father, for while the humans had left Barren Island, the wildlife remained. Every day he would explore the beaches, where the least terns nested and where each new wave would bring in some exciting new form of Bay life. Great blue herons, double-crested cormorants, herring gulls, gadwalls, boat-tailed grackles . . . he got to know them all, as well as the lesser masters of the island's marshes, such as saltmarsh snails. He scarcely had time to wonder what lay beyond the island. 

Barren Island had occasional visitors. The fleet master of the House of Mollusc, who was liege-master to Captain Pembroke, would pay periodic, formidable visits to check that Master Hooper was carrying out his duties properly. Sol came every few months, always under the excuse that he was delivering supplies. And at age six, Meredith began receiving visits from a tutor. The tutor had been hired by Captain Pembroke, after the boat-master became concerned by the fact that his liegeman had been unable to locate a masters' school that would admit his son. 

Meredith found that he liked studying as much as he liked exploring the island. His tutor, while gently correcting Meredith's speech until he talked like a master, was wise enough to capitalize on Meredith's strengths; he set Meredith to work translating ancient authors of natural history, and he loaned Meredith many books on mathematics and science. One such book was about the amazing technology of the First Landstead; Meredith promptly began devising ways he could visit the First Landstead some day. The nearby islands and the Third Landstead's mainland remained a distant vision to him. 

Captain Pembroke visited the island as well, of course, sometimes accompanied by his third-born son. In time, Meredith came to understand that, when he grew older, he was expected to serve the younger boy in the same manner that his father served Captain Pembroke. Shyly, Meredith showed the younger Pembroke his treasures: the sword-pointed shell of a horseshoe crab, an osprey's untidy nest, and the red-flecked shell of a periwinkle snail. The other boy seemed uninterested in the natural world; all his talk was about the strategies of footer, a game that Meredith had never seen. Their conversation lagged. Meredith asked his tutor to teach him footer. 

Finally Meredith reached his apprenticeship years, when he was expected to enter into higher studies than his tutor could provide. On the very morning that he reached his eleventh sun-circuit, two pieces of joyful news arrived: Meredith's father had been promoted to be keeper of the lamphouse off Hoopers Island, and Meredith, by virtue of his planned allegiance to Master Pembroke, had been accepted as a student at Narrows School. He was scheduled to begin first form in one turn of a sun-circuit, just before his fourth tri-year began. 

Within one week of his arrival at Narrows School, Meredith realized that he knew nothing about being a master. 

He had never thought much before about that topic. He knew, in a practical sense, that he was a master, and he also knew that his rank as a master was provisional. But what the difference was between a master and a servant he did not know. The only servant he had ever met was Sol, who treated Meredith's father like a beloved younger brother who has taken a wrong turn in life but must nonetheless be humored. 

The first lesson Meredith learned – or rather, had beaten into him by his fellow students – was that he must not lower his eyes. He must not lower his eyes, but he must not look too boldly at higher-ranked students. He must not call servants sir – even if they were twice his age – and he must not fail to call second- and first-ranked masters sir, even if they were half his age. He must be willing to help higher-ranked students, but he must not appear too eager to help them, for that was the sign of a servant. 

The rules for being a third-ranked master were hopelessly complicated. In moments of despair, Meredith suspected that, even if he had been trained to follow the rules from the day he was born, he would never have mastered how to be a master. In the meantime, making mistake after mistake, and being known everywhere in school as the boy whose wrist remained unmarked with his rank sign, he endured harsh words and harsher blows from practically every student in his House. 

He would spend his nights sobbing into his pillow, dreaming of the day when Master Pembroke would arrive at the school and put an end to the torture. Pembroke would care for him, just as Pembroke's father had cared for Meredith's father. 

Pembroke finally arrived at the school. He was promptly named as Rudd's fag. Meredith scarcely saw him during the first term, or the second, or the third. Swallowing his disappointment, Meredith awaited the day when he would formally vow his allegiance to the second-ranked master. After that point, surely Pembroke would take notice of his liegeman. 

o—o—o

The sun dipped toward the horizon. Meredith, still standing sleepless by the lamphouse cottage's window, turned and fumbled with the matches, seeking a spark of light.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Meredith returned from the holidays to find his form much diminished. The Dozen Landsteads' universities all held entrance examinations during the autumn holidays; anyone who was six tri-years old by the beginning of the autumn term was eligible to sit exams. As a result, every lad in the seventh form who was six by then left Narrows after the autumn term, other than Carruthers, who had missed his previous summer term and was still making up his studies. 

Meredith's sixth birthday had come past the starting point for the autumn term, so he joined the students returning to school. The seventh form was always the smallest class, what with students dropping out after sixth form if they weren't planning to attend university, and a handful of students being sent down for violations of school rules. Now, with most of the six-tri-years students gone, so few seventh-formers were left that the Head Master erased the distinction between the Lower Seventh and the Upper Seventh, allowing third- and second-ranked students to attend lessons alongside first-ranked students. 

The result of this was that Meredith found himself in all but one of the lessons that were attended by both Rudd and Carruthers. 

To Meredith's great relief, Carruthers never looked his way. He sat in the front row in each class, industriously taking notes, as though his being heir to the Second Landstead, as well as Head and Captain of the Second House, wouldn't be reason enough for the instructors to pass him with alacrity. Rudd, who had watched Meredith through narrowed eyes for the first week or two, gradually lost interest in scrutinizing the activities of his fag. After a while, Meredith managed to keep his mind on schoolwork during lesson-time, rather than on the explosive combination of himself and the two Heads. 

The lesson that Meredith did not share with either Head was Astronomy, the closest that Narrows had to a science course. It was allowed onto the curriculum only because astronomical mathematics was mentioned by the ancient authors and was therefore deemed respectable. Most of the lesson-work consisted of mathematical proofs. Master Trundle, who taught Astronomy, would have considered actually looking at the stars to be an activity beneath notice, while news of the latest rocket ships being launched into orbit from Yclau would have fallen under the category of Foreign Heresies. 

Meredith had no great interest in foreign activities himself, but he was passionately interested in the history of the Dozen Landsteads, and it was impossible to study the history of the First Landstead without stumbling across pages upon pages of references to scientific matters. He had assembled at home – under his father's proud eye – a respectable library of scientific textbooks, while the school library turned out to have a fairly good collection of scientifiction tucked away in the section for first-ranked students and their classmates. Since he had not previously studied alongside first-ranked students, Meredith had not been permitted to enter the first-ranked section before this term. Now he discovered, upon proudly presenting his Upper Seventh card to the librarian, that at least one other person at Narrows School shared his interest in scientifiction, for several of the books he had hoped to borrow were already off the shelves when he checked. All the other lads learning astronomy seemed to be sleeping through the proceedings, so Meredith assumed that one of the school masters had a taste for thrilling adventures in outer space. 

It was not until the second week of term that he came into the nook that held the scientifiction books and discovered Carruthers there, carefully examining each spine, with a stack of scientifiction books already tucked under one arm. 

He looked up before Meredith could retreat. Meredith froze, staring at the book in Carruthers's hand, which Meredith had been planning to borrow. He blurted out, "You want to read _Fantastic Voyages to the Moon and Beyond_?" Then he felt himself turn crimson. 

Carruthers said in an easy manner, "I've already read it, about twelve dozen times. Did you want to borrow it?" Before Meredith could think of what to say, Carruthers placed the book atop Meredith's stack of history books. 

Meredith thought to himself that there must be a more graceful way of retreating than dropping his books and running. But every instinct in his body – the instincts that he had tried so hard to rid himself of – told him that he could not leave until Carruthers dismissed him. 

The Head seemed to be expecting some sort of response. Groping for words, Meredith said, "Master Trundle mentioned that book in our lesson yesterday." 

"Favorably?" Carruthers managed to hide any look of disgust at Meredith's inane remark. 

"Er . . . no. He was making fun of it, actually. He said that it talked about planets around other stars, which Flaminius said couldn't exist." 

Carruthers smiled. "And since Flaminius lived in the seventh tri-century, long before the invention of the telescope, of course he was the expert on such matters. . . . I wish my Government lesson wasn't at the same time as Master Trundle's lesson; I would have liked to have taken it, if only for Trundle's entertaining commentary. What topic is he covering this term?" 

"Astronomy in the middle tri-centuries." It was becoming easier by the moment to talk to Carruthers; the Head Prefect seemed absorbed in the conversation, as patient as the Head Master would have been at what Meredith was saying. 

"Is he, by all that is sacred? He'll never get the class to the twentieth tri-century at this rate." 

"I don't think he wants to, sir," replied Meredith with a smile. "Then he might have to demonstrate actual knowledge of astronomy." 

Carruthers actually laughed then; Meredith grinned, relieved. He had been sure, at the beginning of this meeting, that Carruthers was holding a grudge against him for never having turned up for the invited meeting, but now Meredith realized how ridiculous an idea that was. Carruthers had undoubtedly forgotten their conversation in the changing room within a day of its occurrence. No doubt, if Meredith had actually showed up at Carruthers's door, the Head would have found a way to politely quiz him as to his purpose there, and might even have humored Meredith by giving him . . . by giving him whatever it was that Carruthers had offered in the changing room. But the idea that the Head should care whether or not Meredith came to his rooms was patently absurd, as was the idea that Carruthers had been using Meredith as a tool in his war against Rudd. Meredith simply didn't matter that much. 

Cheered by this thought, and warmed by Carruthers's politeness toward a third-ranker from a rival House, Meredith opened his mouth to make another light joke . . . and at that moment he heard Rudd, talking loudly as he entered the library, just to show that he could. 

Carruthers's gaze flicked toward the door, where Rudd was continuing to raise his voice as he spoke with the second-ranked librarian, who was timidly suggesting that he speak in lower tones. Then Carruthers said quietly, "I'm heading over to the tuck shop to buy some sweets. Would you care to join me? The shop is usually deserted at this time of day, so we'd be able to hear ourselves speak for once." He gave a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. 

That smile – the same one he had given in the changing room – made Meredith step backwards, as much as the vision of what Rudd would do if he discovered Meredith and Carruthers alone together in the tuck shop. "No," Meredith whispered. "Thank you. Sir. No." 

He fled then, his instinct to avoid pain overcoming his instinct to await dismissal. Yet even as he fled, part of him whispered, _Failed as a master, and you can't even succeed as a servant?_

o—o—o

The weeks passed in spring term. Ice boats occasionally skidded across the iced-in portions of Richland Cove, filled with school masters taking a much-needed break from their duties. The students preferred to skate on a nearby pond. Snow fell, blanketing the playing fields, so that students grumbled, as they did every sun-circuit, that there would be no opportunity left to play the final matches leading to the Spring Term Cup. Snow forts were built by the students on the fields, with the participants showing as much fierceness with ice-balls as well-equipped third backs. Once, flatteringly, Davenham invited Meredith to help defend the Third House's fort, but Meredith declined the offer. The universities would be holding examinations again during the spring holidays, and Meredith did not have a first-ranker's luxury to be slack in his studies; he would be sitting for one of the fiercely fought scholarship exams. So, like a soldier, he spent all his free time in preparation for the coming battle. 

Rudd was busy too, helping to plan the upcoming picket season with Pembroke, who was a fair fielder. Rudd rarely called for Meredith's services this term, so Meredith was free to spend his days in the third-rankers' study, alone except for the occasional servant who entered to tend the fire, while Meredith watched him out of the corner of his eye. 

At night, he dreamt of jet-cars in the sky, and slidewalks and computers, and the underground dome of Prison City. He had chosen to try for the school's History Prize, and was therefore writing an essay on the history of the First Landstead since 1912. Because that was a topic which had been little studied by any upper landstead historian, he was able to receive permission to consult First Landsteaders' books at the High Masters' library. The library, along with the other rooms of the High Masters' council, was located on Lower Hoopers Island, down-Bay of Narrows School. 

This was his first visit to the council's headquarters, though he was scheduled to return there in the summer, when the High Masters would hear his court case. He found himself disappointed by the architecture of the buildings. Amidst the library books' pictures of the First Landstead's gleaming buildings of glass and stainless steel and bold colors, the crumbling stone castle with its faded tapestries seemed like a step into the past, rather than a step into the future. 

He saw from a distance the High Master of the Second Landstead, who was M Carruthers's uncle, but he did not possess the courage to walk up and introduce himself. He returned from the council's headquarters with nothing to show for his visit except a few exciting passages about the experiments being run on the prisoners at Prison City. 

The cold finally broke; snow melted from the fields, and the students waited anxiously for the fields to grow dry enough to be played on. The snow players returned indoors, making concentration at studies impossible, for more students wanted to chat and rag in the third-rankers' study than to work. Meredith took his books outside, sitting on the chilly perch of the lamphouse. In the distance, he could hear the boom of cannons and the crack of gunfire as the dredgers and tongers fought, and sometimes, on the Honga River, he caught sight of the sails of the dredgers' bugeyes and skipjacks, or the tongers' log canoes and brogans. But none of the watermen ventured into Richland Cove, where the waters were littered with rocks that could destroy larger boats. 

North and east and south of Hoopers Island were the Fourth through Twelfth Landsteads, which Meredith had never visited. He had never been to any landstead other than the Third, but when he daydreamed of travelling, it was not to the remaining upper landsteads – it was to the First Landstead, which looked forwards to the future, not backwards to the past. 

Yet all the while, as the days of sunlight extended and the spring holidays approached, Meredith felt like a footer forward, watching the clock tick down as he lost his remaining opportunity to achieve his goal, before it was too late. 

o—o—o

Spring term also meant one thing that was of overriding importance to most of the students at Narrows: the final weeks of footer season. 

Pembroke's pre-match talks were usually held in the Third House's changing room, a fact for which Meredith was grateful. It was easier, amidst the clutter of wardrobes and helmet hooks and equipment racks, to hide himself in an inconspicuous corner as he slipped into his uniform and readied his equipment. 

Pembroke, as usual, did not wait for the other players to finish dressing before he started on his talk. 

"We play hard," he said, "but we play _fair_. Contrary to what some other Houses think, it's possible to win a match without cheating. Indeed, if we lose a match because the other side has cheated, we are the true winners – the men who have held to honesty amidst temptation. 'Play fair' has been the Third House's motto since this school began, six tri-centuries ago, and what is the result? We are second in running for the Spring Term Cup this sun-circuit. We'll be first," he added, looking at the players around him, "by the time this afternoon's match is ended." 

The players gave cries of approval; even Meredith smiled as he fastened his helmet-strap below his chin. He had as much pride in the traditions of the Third House as the next student, and if Pembroke had been Head of the House instead of Rudd, Meredith's pride would have been unadulterated. As a player, he did not even have to worry about Rudd's scrutiny. Rudd, who was so poor a player at footer that even his rank wouldn't permit him to be picked for the team, invariably skived off from prefecting during week-break matches in order to visit Hoopersville. The locals, wise to Rudd's ways, kept their virgin daughters and sons at home during week-break. 

Because of this, Meredith could forget, for a small space of time each week, that his body and soul belonged to Rudd. On the field, all that mattered was pleasing his true liege-master, Pembroke. 

"Masters Fletcher, Edwards, and Aspinall." Pembroke addressed the three first-rankers lounging on the benches, fully dressed in their green-trimmed black uniforms and with their hands free of equipment. "There have been too many cases in recent matches of last-minute passes when the clock is ticking down to zero. If you see that one of the other forwards has an opening for a quick goal or try, then of course you should pass to him. But to pass to another forward simply because the clock is about to reach zero is sheer cowardice." His gaze, which had been travelling between the three first-rankers, paused momentarily on Edwards, then passed on to Fletcher, where it stayed. "And to allow the Dredgers to get hold of the ball simply in order to avoid being the man who holds the ball when the clock reaches zero is worse than cowardice." 

Fletcher, reaching down to retie his boots, grunted. There was a grudging murmur of acknowledgment from other two forwards for this reprimand. There had been trouble the previous term when Rudd, contrary to all House tradition, had named his second-ranked friend to the post of Captain, instead of any of the eligible first-rankers, but a nearly unbroken string of victories had gradually persuaded the forwards that, if they must be led by a second-ranked master, Pembroke was the right lad for the job. 

As for the second- and third-rankers on the team, they now hung on Pembroke's every word. They were leaning forward now, their hearts barely caged within their ribs, to hear whether he would pick any of them out for special notice, either positive or negative. Meredith, whose own heart had sped up despite himself, took up a cloth and began cleaning his equipment. 

"Second backs." Pembroke, resplendent in a House Captain's all-white uniform, turned his attention to the second-ranked masters, who were dressed in black with blue trim. "Your job is to support the forwards. _Not_ to win glory for yourselves. If I hear of any more nonsense such as prizes for the lad who fouls the most players—" All six of the second-rankers grew suddenly pink or turned their attention to their feet. "—I'll ask Master Rudd to cane the lot of you. Understand?" 

There was a sudden, dreadful silence, and then voices tumbled over one another as the second-rankers assured Pembroke that they would never _think_ of putting their own interests ahead of the team's. Pembroke let them speak until they were hoarse, while the forwards grinned and the third-rankers in their red-trimmed uniforms exchanged uneasy glances. If Pembroke was threatening second-rankers with beatings, what lay in store for the third-rankers? 

"Third backs." Pembroke cut away the final, shrill promises of the second-ranked masters. The third-rankers, to a lad, sucked in their breaths. Pembroke looked round at them solemnly before saying, "You've done well this term." 

All nine third-rankers emitted a huge sigh, including Meredith. Pembroke added, "That doesn't mean there isn't room for improvement. I know that I've allowed you more freedom than previous Captains have—" 

"That's why we love you, sir!" cried one of the third backs before he realized what he had said and turned crimson. 

A ripple of light laughter ran around the changing-room as Pembroke solemnly replied, "Thank you. I'm not trying to be critical of previous Captains; every Captain has his own style and encourages particular traits in his players. I prefer my players to show initiative and imagination – but I also expect them to work within the match's plan." He flicked his gaze over to the third backs who were still giggling, and they fell abruptly silent. "Initiative without unity is mere anarchy. I know that it can be difficult, during the frenzy of the game, to remember prior orders, but keep in mind: our games are preparation for life. If any of us ever takes to the field in earnest, it's unlikely we'll be fortunate enough to have a Captain by our side, reminding us of our orders. Whether we learn to obey orders now may be a matter of life or death to us and our fellow soldiers in the future." 

Everyone was silent a minute before one of the second-rankers asked, "Do you really think war is likely, Pembroke?" 

Pembroke shrugged as he reached over to pull his helmet off its hook. "Your guess is good as mine. The High Master of the Second Landstead is a fair-minded man, but the House of His Master's Kindness is showing no signs of wishing to obey his orders. And our own High Master is bound to defend the House of Mollusc if things continue the way they have for the past four tri-years." 

Meredith, feeling sober, ducked his head as he ran the cloth down his equipment again. He had only been on the boats once when the tongers of the Third Landstead fought the dredgers of the Second Landstead, who seemed intent on scraping clean all the oyster bars in the Third Landstead's waters, just as they had already scraped clean all the oysters from their own waters. But that one battle had taught him that the dredgers of the House of His Master's Kindness were vicious fighters. If the men of the Second Landstead's other Houses were just as vicious, matters might go very badly indeed for the Third Landstead if their two landsteads went to war with one another over fishing rights. And if the other landsteads decided that this was just a matter to be settled between those two landsteads, and if the Third Landstead continued to follow its tradition of fair play . . . 

Not for the first time, Meredith inwardly cursed Carruthers's father, who had drawn them all into this mess. The Second Landstead's High Master was as fair-minded as Pembroke had said; if matters had been left to him alone, the Second Landsteaders would never have engaged in illegal oystering in the Third Landstead's territory. And Meredith was quite sure that M Carruthers, who was set to succeed his uncle one day as High Master, did not countenance his father's flagrant violations of the high law, if only because the younger Carruthers was foresightful enough to see what civil war could mean to the future of the Dozen Landsteads. 

Indeed, Pembroke was tacitly acknowledging that now by saying, "The Captain of the Second House has shown considerable restraint since he took over the Dredgers last term, but remember: our two teams have been bitter rivals for many tri-centuries now. However sincere Master Carruthers's commitment to fair play may or may not be, it's unlikely that he can fully control his players, who have been inculcated by previous Captains in the dirtiest fighting methods to be found in the world. So keep guard. Play clean, but don't hesitate to defend yourselves. I'll personally beat the backsides of any of you who hit with a rifle-barrel when a fist will do, but if the Dredgers play dirty, don't hesitate to do whatever the rules allow, in order to defend yourselves. As for shooting . . ." He looked around the room, not only at the third backs, but also at the second backs and forwards. "Kill the fuck out of them. I want to see that field swimming in blood." 

Everyone was completely still now. Meredith had ceased to wipe his rifle some time back; now he ceased to breathe. He could not remember ever having heard Pembroke swear before. 

"Master Rudd's father," said Pembroke slowly, "was Master of the House of Mollusc before his rise to the High Mastership. You all know that. You also know that, before his rise to the High Mastership, Master Rudd's father was liege-master to my father, just as young Master Rudd will serve as my liege-master until he becomes High Master. 

"That I am Captain of this team isn't by coincidence. Master Rudd chose me as Captain because my father has been captain and boat-master of the _Elsie Pembroke_. In the past three-and-two-thirds tri-years, twenty-eight of my father's watermen have been killed by Second Landsteaders while defending our House's oyster territory. _Twenty-eight._ They were murdered by those pirates who steal our landstead's oysters and leave nothing – _nothing_ – for us to tong afterwards. They dredge our side of the Bay until it is dead. We've tonged these waters for tri-centuries, allowing the oysters time to grow back and provide us with further harvests in the coming sun-circuits, but those arrogant, dredging Third Landsteaders steal into our territory and kill our oyster bars. _They kill our men._ " 

No sound now except the faint sound of laughter, coming from the direction of the Second House. Pembroke turned his cool gaze upon every lad present before saying, with utter simplicity, "Last spring, two members of the Third House died at this school, during games, due to dirty play. They were both killed by players from the Second House." 

The silence was much longer this time. Several of the players present had turned white, though whether from fear or anger wasn't clear. Pembroke finally said quietly, "This school has never countenanced such behavior; the Head Master immediately sent down the offenders. But both those incidents tell us what types of stakes we are playing for. The Second House – indeed, many of the Second Landsteaders – will stop at nothing to get what they want. It is left to us, the House whose motto is 'Fair play,' to show the world that we are the better players. We can win victory without resorting to foul, underhanded deeds. We are not pirates in the night, stripping men of their livelihoods and their lives. We are soldiers who defend what is ours, and who do so while upholding the high law." 

For the briefest of seconds, Pembroke held everyone in the palm of his hand. Then the silence broke, and the cheers that rose in the room threatened to bring down the ceiling upon them. Meredith cheered with the rest, thumping his stock on the floor, since his rifle was not yet loaded. 

Pembroke, fastening his metal helmet, waited until everyone had cheered themselves hoarse before adding, in a matter-of-fact manner, "So keep your shots clean. Remember: you're aiming for a game-killing, not a real killing. Unless your chosen player is already down and not moving, shoot to disable. Legs, arms, buttocks – those are all fair play. Avoid the rest of the body unless you're certain of hitting the target safely. These may not be real bullets" – he reached over and plucked out of Meredith's hand the pellet he had been about to stuff into his air rifle – "but they can do just as much damage as a bullet if they're shot too close or on the wrong part of the body. Remember those two players who were sent down last sun-circuit, and show appropriate caution. If that's not incentive enough, remember that the Dredgers were forced to forfeit both those matches to our team. . . . Oh, and Hobson?" 

"Sir?" squeaked Hobson, who was a third back. 

"Watch out for the barbed wire – there's a good lad. . . . All right, Tongers, I think we're ready now." Pembroke clapped his hands. "Everyone out on the field. —No, wait, Meredith. I'd like a word with you." 

As the other players began to stream out of the changing room, Meredith hurried over to Pembroke, rifle in hand. "Yes, master?" he said. "Do you require my service?" 

From the doorway came snickers from some of the departing players. Pembroke flicked a glance at Fletcher, who was chortling, but waited until all of the players were gone and the changing-room door closed before he said, "Meredith, don't call me master." 

Meredith, who was in the midst of putting his rifle aside, hung his head, biting his lip to keep from speaking any sentence that began, "But . . ." After a few seconds, he said, "May I ask a question, ma— Sir?" 

"Yes, of course." Pembroke gestured impatiently. 

"You sometimes address Master Rudd as master. Is it wrong to . . . ? I mean, are there times when I'm supposed to . . . ?" 

Pembroke sighed. "Yes, I sometimes address my liege-master as master. But nobody is questioning whether I am a master." 

There was a long silence as Meredith stared at the floor. Through the windows came the faint sound of guns, from the direction of Honga River. 

"Meredith, look up." 

Pembroke's voice was so sharp that Meredith had to exert all his effort not to fall to his knees. He raised his eyes far enough that he could see his liege-master's annoyed expression, but could not find the strength to raise his face. 

Pembroke sighed heavily and thumped Meredith into an upright position, as though he were a first-former who had not yet learned service and protocol. "Listen to me," he said. "Most of the students at this school believe you're a servant. That's not fair of them, but you don't help matters when you act subservient. Even third-rankers have opportunities to demonstrate their mastership. You're a good third back; you ought to be able to exert leadership among the third backs, rather than hang back and let others make decisions on your behalf. Show initiative, make bold decisions, take charge. If you do that on the field, then it won't matter whether you call me 'master' off the field. I have faith in you; I know that you can do this." 

"Yes, mas—" He bit his lip, lowered his eyes, and heard Pembroke sigh again. 

"Oh, Meredith," murmured his liege-master. "By all that is sacred, what should I do with you?" 

He had any number of answers to that question, but he did not have the opportunity to figure out how to raise the topic of Pembroke's neglected duties, for his liege-master said, "Now, about our fathers . . ." 

"Yes, sir?" He quickly looked up. "I was very sorry, sir, to hear about your father's accident." He had been wanting to say that since he returned to school, but this was the first opportunity that Pembroke had offered him for private conversation. 

Pembroke nodded, his gaze drifting away. "My father, you understand, is unable to remain your father's liege-master." 

Meredith felt pain clutch at his chest. Would Pembroke use this as an excuse to set aside his own oath of protection? "Yes, sir," he managed to reply. "I was grieved to hear that his health did not permit him to continue working. Is he doing all right?" 

"He's as well as can be expected." Pembroke continued not to meet Meredith's eyes. "You know I have two elder brothers. My eldest brother has inherited my father's title." 

"And his boat and crew?" Meredith suggested, thinking of Sol. 

Pembroke shook his head. "He already has his own boat and crew. My father's crewmen will have to find other masters to serve, and the boat . . . Well, my father has given me the _Elsie Pembroke_ , though I've no idea what I'll do with it. That doesn't matter. What matters is that my brother has decided that he doesn't wish to take on another liegeman." 

Meredith stared at his boots, saying nothing. He had met Pembroke's eldest brother several times; on his last visit to the school, Captain Pembroke's oldest son had spoken of his desire to acquire more liegemen. 

Just not this particular liegeman, it seemed. 

"What will happen to my father, sir?" His voice sounded hollow. He tried to think back to his lessons in constitutional law. By the rules laid down by Remigeus, every third-ranked master must have a liege-master. Every third-ranked master was assumed to be able to _find_ a liege-master. But if no one wanted Meredith's father . . . 

"My other brother is in the Oyster Navy," Pembroke said. 

Meredith looked up quickly. "But he's a cadet, isn't he? Is he permitted to take liegemen, sir?" 

Pembroke ignored Meredith's question, although his gaze had finally drifted back to his liegeman. "His liege-master, Commander Crayton, came to visit our home when he learned of my father's accident. When he enquired after my father's future . . . Well, I happened to mention your father's case to him. He says that he is desperately in need of trained watermen to serve in the navy. Of course, your father would have to start as a cadet, but do you think he might want to—?" 

"Sir, that's _wonderful_!" Meredith burst out, unable to contain himself. "He'd love to follow the water again! Oh, thank you, master!" He fell to the floor – remembering at the last moment to kneel on only one knee – and tried to kiss Pembroke's hands. 

Pembroke snatched his hands back. "Meredith, stand up!" 

Hearing the anger in his voice, Meredith quickly rose and stared at his boots again, feeling his joy smothered by disappointment at himself for so blatantly disobeying his liege-master's orders. There was another moment of long silence as the gunshots from Honga River resounded more loudly. Daylight raids by the dredgers had come more frequently during the past sun-circuit. 

Finally Pembroke said in a weary voice, "Go to the field, Meredith." 

"Yes, sir," Meredith replied bleakly, but he could not have said whether Pembroke heard him, for his liege-master had already turned away.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Carruthers had ordered his third backs to attack the Seventh House's trench. As the onlookers along the northern touch-line of the field cried, "Go, Septenaries!" (the unimaginative name that the Seventh House had chosen for its team), the Dredger third backs raced forward to the eastern end of the field, their rifles in hand, their teeth bared, their fingers on the triggers. The Septenary second backs – no fools – parted with alacrity to make way for the attacking party. 

The Dredger third backs entered the western end of the field and passed the maul, where the Dredger second backs were clustered in a linked circle around one of the Septenary forwards, who was desperately trying to break free to reach the western goalposts. Then the Dredger third backs were into the dangerous area where the Septenary third backs in the trenches could easily open shot on them. The crowd on the northern touch-line roared to the Septenaries to defend the trench. 

Instead, faced with the unrelenting ferocity of the attackers – and perhaps with their minds full of images of what the Dredgers' fathers were like in battle – the Septenary third backs panicked. Almost to a man, they dropped their rifles and scrambled, in an undignified manner, out the back of the trench. All around Meredith, the crowd groaned, while the Second House spectators on the southern touch-line cheered their team's advance. 

With no one shooting at them from the trench now, the Dredger second backs had no trouble holding the Septenary forward in their maul. The maul lurched back and forward, like a drunken terrapin, but the forward could not free himself. The remaining two Septenary forwards hovered near the western goalposts in case the trapped forward should have a chance to pass the ball to them; all three of the Dredger forwards were guarding against this possibility with vigilance. As for the Septenary second backs, they stood helplessly at the halfway line, in case the ball should come back into play in their direction. 

The Dredger third backs reached the trenches and dropped in. Three of the Septenaries in the trench had kept their heads and stayed to fight, but their rifles were quickly wrenched from them. Another Septenary third back, shame-faced, returned empty-handed to the trench to try to assist the other three. A short, nasty fist-fight occurred between the third backs of both teams, settled when a Dredgers raised his rifle barrel and swung it at the face of one of his rivals. There followed a crack that sounded suspiciously like a jaw-bone being broken; the injured third back screamed in agony. The other Septenaries in the trench immediately surrendered. 

Meredith looked quickly over at the Games Master, who was refereeing, but that august school master had just turned his head to look at the clock. On both sides of the field, spectators were beginning to chant the final seconds: "Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! . . ." 

A cautious team would have withdrawn its second backs from the maul when seven seconds were left, minimizing the possibility of injury to the second backs. A bolder team would have waited until three seconds were left, risking injury but minimizing the danger that the trapped forward would make a last-minute score. 

The Dredgers did neither. They waited until there was one second left on the clock, and then, with well-practiced synchronicity, they flung themselves backwards and rolled out of danger. The Septenary forward was left with the near impossibility of kicking the ball in time. 

He tried anyway. His foot touched the ball just as the final second disappeared. The game clock rang. 

The grenade-ball exploded. 

The forward collapsed, his shout of agony joining with the continued scream of his teammate in the trench. The Septenaries' medic-servants were already trotting onto the field with a stretcher in order to deal with the trench injury; they paused, obviously trying to balance higher rank – the forward's – versus higher degree of injury – most likely the third back's, if that crack had indeed been of a bone breaking. 

Carruthers, who had remained at the western end of the field, from which he had ordered his third backs to make their attack, showed characteristic generosity and waved his own medics onto the field, directing them toward his opponents' forward. Carruthers was quite good at being generous after his players had been vicious. The Dredgers' medics easily got the forward onto the stretcher; he had ceased to make any noise after the first shout and was now doing his best to stay still amidst the pain. The thick boots and gloves that forwards wore protected them from the worst of ball blasts, but invariably, forwards who held the ball when the timer went off would receive gunpowder burns on their thighs or arms. As the medics carried the Septenary forward to his own team's touch-line, he raised his thumb in the air to show that he was not seriously injured. 

There was applause on both sides of the field. "Plucky devil," commented Jeffries, and Meredith nodded, even though he knew that Jeffries was addressing the third back sitting on his right, rather than Meredith, who sat on his left. To stick with a ball that was about to explode, in the face of nearly insuperable odds against making a goal, was a courageous act; for bravery alone, the Septenaries deserved to win. 

With one of their forwards out, though, and a demoralized set of third backs, the Septenaries played poorly. As the Septenaries' medics feverishly worked on the injured third back, and the injured forward cracked jokes with other members of his House while his gunpowder burns were dressed, the Septenary players gave up goal after goal. 

"The Dredgers will be worn out after this," predicted Pembroke. He was standing just behind where Meredith sat, alongside his chum Davenham. That was one of the things which made Pembroke well-liked among the Tonger players: although his status as a House Captain entitled him to a seat in the bleachers where the first-ranked students watched the matches, Pembroke always remained standing with the second-ranked students. 

"They look too bloody fresh on the field to me," replied Davenham grimly. "If the Septenaries could just get Master Arthurs off the field . . . The combination of his forwarding and Master Carruthers's Captaincy is deadly. And it doesn't help that the Dredgers are playing their usual dirty tricks." 

Meredith, sitting cross-legged with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists, frowned as he glanced over toward the southern bleacher, where the school masters sat. The Head Master was dressed in his usual manner at matches: in the House cap he had won when he belonged to the Third House's team as a student. He looked cheerful, as he always did during well-played matches, regardless of which team won. Meredith assumed that the Head Master had not noticed the nastiness in the Septenaries' trench, which, while not against game rules, was hardly fair play, since the armed Dredger attackers had well outnumbered the unarmed Septenary defenders. 

The clock was wound back for the final minutes of the match, and the timer of the new grenade-ball timer was synchronized with the clock before the hinged halves of the ball were closed. "The Dredgers are sure to lose – they'll play conservatively now," Jeffries predicted confidently as the play began, with all the knowledgeableness of a player who has only recently been added to his team. 

The other third backs were kind enough not to roll their eyes. The Dredgers _never_ played conservatively. They used their ferocity to frighten their opponents into tentative play, whether now or at a future match. And on this afternoon, the Dredgers knew that their next opponents were watching. 

Meredith shifted uneasily. Thanks to the weeks lost when snow lay on the playing field, the Games Master had been forced to schedule back-to-back matches for the rest of the days of the footer season. As a result, Meredith had been sitting on the slick, winter-cold ground for over an hour now, waiting for the Dredgers to finish their match with the Septenaries, before the Dredgers began their match with the Tongers. Meredith would have liked to have stretched his legs, but he could not stand up and block the view of the second-ranked students behind him; nor could he stretch out his legs as he sat, for the maul that had just formed was coming dangerously close to the northern touch-line of the field, where members of the Third and Seventh Houses watched. Indeed, the nearby Seventh House students were beginning to back up toward the bleachers, but Pembroke didn't move, which meant that none of the Third House players could move from their spots. 

It was exciting, Meredith decided, to see a maul so closely. Usually, when he was on the field, his thoughts were on making his shots or on surviving a fist-fight in the trenches. He rarely got to see the tightened muscles of the second backs as they linked their arms around each other, trapping the forward in the middle of their maul. Meredith could hear their grunts as the forward tried to kick his way free, and once it appeared that the second backs would gain control of the ball. But the forward kept the ball close to himself thereafter as the seconds on the clock ticked down. 

It was a Dredger forward, Arthurs, who had the ball, so the Septenary second backs scattered at the seventh second, leaving Arthurs with a clear field. 

There was little hope that the Dredgers would be able to make this final goal, however; the maul had managed to lurch toward the Septenaries' goalpost, far away from the Dredgers' goalpost. "Not enough time," muttered Jeffries, but Meredith said nothing. He was watching Arthurs bring back his foot for the kick, while beyond him, Carruthers raced toward the scene of the action. 

Arthurs missed the kick. He not only missed the kick, but he slipped and fell on the slick ground at the edge of the field. The ball spun slightly, but remained where it was, with two seconds on the clock. "Back!" shouted Pembroke, and immediately the Third House players scrambled away from the danger. 

Except Meredith. He had forgotten to move. Arthurs was trying to roll away from the ball; the sound of his curses reached Meredith. There was one second left on the clock. The ball was inches from Meredith. . . . 

And then something fell upon the ball, so that its explosion was muffled. 

Meredith barely felt the blast. The player who had flung himself upon the ball at the last minute in order to shield his player lay unmoving. It was Carruthers. 

A silence had fallen upon the crowd. Pembroke, belatedly realizing that Meredith was missing, had run back to the edge of the field, but after a quick glance at Meredith, he ignored his liegeman, opting instead to be the one to flip Carruthers over. The Second House medics were racing across the field, the cloth of their stretcher flapping. 

"He's alive," Pembroke informed them when they arrived. Meredith, who was on his knees now, bent forward to look. Carruthers was breathing, but he had gunpowder burns all over his chest; the cloth of his uniform had burnt away in several places. His eyes remained closed. 

"Sanatorium!" It was the Head Master's voice, calling from his seat. Meredith bit his lip. Game injuries – even bad ones, like broken bones – were usually cared for by the medic-servants attached to each House; only in the most serious cases would the school doctor be called forth. The doctor hurried forward now, his bag in hand, as Pembroke helped the medics place Carruthers on the stretcher. 

Meredith, seeing that he was blocking the doctor's path, reluctantly scrambled to his feet and withdrew. Almost immediately, he was grabbed by Jeffries. "Good work!" said the other third-ranker. 

"What?" Meredith barely glanced at him before turning his attention back to the scene. Carruthers was now surrounded by the doctor, the medics, Pembroke, the referees, and the forwards on both teams, who had come to check how the situation lay; even the previously injured Septenary forward had hobbled over to see how his opponents' Captain faired. As a result, Meredith could no longer catch sight of Carruthers. Surely, if Carruthers was in serious danger, someone would say so? Meredith strained to hear. 

"Luring Carruthers onto the ball like that – good thought! He's just the sort to fall for that sort of trick." 

Meredith frowned as he switched his attention back to Jeffries. "What are you talking about? He was protecting his player." 

"Bollocks!" was Jeffries's response to this. 

"Jeffries is right," Davenham interjected; he had come forward to the touch-line. "Master Arthurs had rolled himself well out of the way by the time Master Carruthers reached the ball; the Head could see that. He flung himself onto the ball to prevent you from being injured. . . . Little duffer," the fifth-former added without heat. "Do you mean to say that you weren't trying to lure Master Carruthers? Best not to tell anyone; let them think that you did it for our team's sake, rather than because you were too much of an idiot to get away from an exploding ball." 

Appalled, Meredith said, "But that's ridiculous, sir! Master Carruthers wouldn't risk a serious injury for _me_." 

Davenham looked him up and down somewhat quizzically, and then laughed. "You just keep telling yourself that, Meredith. Hey! Buy me a jigger, will you?" This was shouted at Jeffries, who had lost interest in the conversation and had wandered over to where the tuck-shop manager was distributing sweets during the interval between matches. 

The crowd around Carruthers began to move as he was taken from the field. There was applause on both sides of the field, though Meredith thought the reason for the applause among the Third House players was suspect. Sure enough, as Pembroke returned, the first thing Davenham said was, "That's a bit of luck. Master Carruthers won't be fit to play for at least a week. With an injury like that, I'll wager he even misses the final match of the season." 

"Perhaps," Pembroke murmured. "Meredith, why didn't you move back when I ordered everyone to do so?" 

"I'm sorry, sir." Meredith swallowed and looked down. "I got caught up in seeing whether Master Carruthers would reach the ball in time." 

There was a long silence, during which Meredith replayed in his mind the words Davenham had spoken to him. Then Pembroke said, "Don't let that happen when you're on the playing field." 

"No, sir." Meredith quickly looked up. "I wouldn't let anything distract me from my duty to . . . to the team." 

"All right, then." Pembroke sounded somehow much wearier than he had a few minutes before. "We'll let the matter go, then; I'm sure you've learned your lesson. Davenham, the Games Master is delaying the second match till this afternoon in order to give the doctor time to finish his work on Master Carruthers. We have an hour to spare before dinner; let's go into town and tell Master Rudd what's happened." 

"All right," said Davenham agreeably, and the two second-rankers wandered off, Pembroke pausing on the way to let his other players hear the news. Meredith remained where he was, standing on the cold ground, watching the doctor and medics work over Carruthers on the other side of the field. 

o—o—o

The Old Building was not very old. It had been built in the seventeenth tri-century after a series of battles between the Third and Fourth Landsteads had left both landsteads denuded of most of their older buildings. Only the school's fifteenth-tri-century chapel had been spared; around it had grown what would later become known as the Old Building. 

The Old Building was built as a spiral. It began at the chapel; then the corridor, winding like the interior of a snail's shell, passed the lesson-rooms before finally reaching the hall that served as both an evening assembly room and a dining room. 

The hall, like every other room in the Old Building except the chapel, was a quadrilateral with two curved sides. And like every other room in the Old Building except the chapel, it looked out on green space on two sides, for the clever architect had woven green space into his plan, so that the curving spiral of rooms was flanked on both sides by a spiral thread of lawn, allowing light to shine into all of the rooms. The dining hall was different only because its exterior-most windows looked out upon the Circle. 

That was the name for the lawns and gardens next to the Old Building. On the perimeter of the Circle, at a respectful distance from the Old Building, was the New Building, the tuck shop, the playing fields, the masters' bedrooms and studies, the servants' sleeping quarters, and various work buildings. From where Meredith sat, at the furthermost end of the Third House table, he could see the building where the coal and coal-oil were stored; servants were busy trundling wheelbarrows of coal from that building to the New Building. Beyond the New Building, the footer field lay empty. 

Meredith let his gaze drift back to the scene within the dining hall. The hall was too small to hold all of the current students at once, so the students gobbled down their food in haste during four shifts of one-third-and-one-half-of-a-third an hour – two hours for all four shifts. Since the First Landstead no longer sent students to the First House of Narrows School, only the Second and Third Houses attended the initial shift of the dining time. 

Meredith could see the attending servants giving wary glances at the students. Food fights were not unknown when the Second and Third Houses dined together. 

At the moment, though, all was peaceful. At the front of the room, on a three-tiered dais, the three ranks of school masters chatted quietly with one another as servants removed their second-course plates. The Head Master, seated in the middle of the first-rankers' table, leaned over to hear something being said by Master Morris, a House Master of civil manners and amiable disposition who presided over the Second House – as much as any House Master could be said to preside when his someday liege-master was Head Prefect. 

Carruthers was noticeably absent today, as was Rudd and his ever-present liegeman, Pembroke; all of them usually sat at the ends of their respective tables that were closest to the school masters' tables. Fletcher was absent as well; he preferred to take his meals in his bedroom, tended by his faithful fag. Nor was Davenham in his place in the middle of the Third House table, where the second-rankers sat. 

This lack of leadership left the third-rankers in perilously high spirits. Meredith knew this, because he sat opposite Fletcher's chum, Jeffries. 

"So I asked Master Fletcher whether he would be willing to let a master who wasn't really a master be employed within his House, and he said that he would be glad to have such a man working there – that hewould soon teach that man his proper place." Jeffries shot a glance at Meredith as the other third-rankers snickered. "In fact, he said thathe was already making plans with that man's liege-master. Something about a position in the House of Mollusc's archive, he said." 

The oysters that Meredith had been eating turned suddenly to bile in his stomach. Jeffries would say anything to scare an enemy, but this sounded like just the sort of arrangement that Pembroke would make in order to please Fletcher's closest friend, Rudd. And the archives . . . Nobody should have known that Pembroke had decided, the previous term, that Meredith's high scores in history exams made him best suited, not for work in the army alongside Pembroke, but for work in a historical archive. 

Meredith would have much preferred to work alongside Pembroke, or, failing that, in a water-related occupation. But he had known better than to say anything; a liege-master had complete control over what employment his liegeman took. Meredith supposed he was lucky that Pembroke had taken into account one of Meredith's interests – history – when deciding upon Meredith's future. 

But to work under Fletcher . . . 

Another student objected, "The House of Mollusc belongs to Master Rudd. Or will, once he comes of age." 

"In the meantime, who's running it?" enquired someone else. 

"Officially, the High Master," Jeffries replied. "In reality, Alec." 

Everyone wrinkled their noses at disgust at the idea of a servant – albeit the highest-ranked servant in the Third Landstead – acting as Head of a House. 

"The High Master should outlaw that sort of thing," said another boy. 

"Master Rudd _will_ , when he becomes High Master," Jeffries replied. "Master Fletcher told me. And when Master Rudd becomes High Master, Master Fletcher will be his heir and will take over the House of Mollusc—" 

"Stop it," said the boy who had previously spoken, looking uneasy. "You're talking about rank changes that won't happen till our High Master dies." 

Jeffries shrugged. "He's bound to die. Everyone says that. If not this sun-circuit, then soon. Master Fletcher doesn't want him to die, any more than Master Rudd does. But if our High Master has to die, it makes sense to plan for the future." 

Meredith, seeing that the conversation had travelled beyond him, let his attention wander away from the young masters to the servants. 

During meals, students were served by their House's own servants. (The Head Master had denied rumors that this custom had been started after a Second House servant poisoned a Third House prefect during the previous tri-century.) Meredith knew by heart the names and appearances of all his House's servants, though he rarely spoke to them, nor they to him. To do the servants credit, there was little need for them to speak to any students. First- and second-ranked students received most of their service from any liegemen who might be attending school at the same time as themselves – or, barring that, from any low-ranked students in the first or second form who had no liegeman present at the school and who was willing to serve as fag to a higher-ranked student. As for the third-ranked students, their needs were tended to by the House servants who cared for the third-rankers' dormitory and study. Narrows School was notorious for refusing to allow third-rankers the luxury of valets or other servants who would tend them one-on-one. 

So Meredith watched from a distance each day as his House's servants built the coal-fires and filled the lamps with coal-oil and changed the bedding and towels and brought in fresh water pitchers and chamber-pots in exchange for the old, and did all such other menial work as low-ranked servants were required to do. 

To give credit to Rudd – Meredith tried to think of it that way – the Head rarely required such work of his fag. For the most part, Meredith undertook the traditional duties of a fag: preparing tea trays, fetching messages, and polishing shoes – any of the types of duties that a high-ranked servant might undertake, or that a liegeman might do for his liege-master if a servant was not present. 

The work itself did not bother Meredith. What bothered him was the fact that Rudd saw that the work did not bother him, and jeered him for it. 

Turning his thoughts away from this paradox – a fag-master who mocked his fag for doing his work well – Meredith turned his attention to the Second House servants. The man whom Davenham had identified as Carruthers's valet was standing next to the head of the long, curved table where the Second House students sat, presently removing Master Arthurs's plate. Meredith was cheered by that image, for surely, if Carruthers was badly wounded, his valet and his closest friend would be at his side? 

The rest of the servants were less familiar to Meredith, seen only at mealtime, though he recognized the stocky, red-haired man serving the third-rankers as the Second House's kicking-servant. Not surprisingly, the kicking-servant was looking glum. 

And then there was the Second House's newest servant. She was hard to miss. 

Female servants were not entirely unknown at Narrows School, but when present, they tended the wives of any married school masters. Traditionalist school masters usually did not marry; Reformed Traditionalist school masters usually made their homes in the nearby town of Hoopersville, so their family servants were rarely seen on the school grounds. 

By contrast, the Third House's pretty young servant – just reaching her journeyman years – was an unexplained anomaly. There had been talk at the beginning of the previous term that she was Carruthers's personal servant. The talk, having been instigated by Third House students, had gone into great detail as to what sort of service she was supposedly giving to Carruthers. But there had been no sign since then that Carruthers treated her with anything other than the distant courtesy he offered to all his House's servants. Even his valet – Meredith had noted, during his covert spying on the Third House table – appeared to hold no special relationship with the man he served. Carruthers always spoke with him in a distant, polite manner, while the valet offered nothing back, other than cool, professional service. 

The servant-girl was far from cool, but her buoyant spirits and friendly demeanor seemed aimed at anyone in her general vicinity; if anything, she seemed a bit shy about approaching the Head of the Second House. Now she was smiling as she offered a cup to a student in the proper manner, with both hands, and then obeyed a snapped order to refill a water pitcher— 

"We're out of water," said Jeffries. 

"Blasted servants are never around when you need them," observed another of the boys, looking longingly toward the service door, through which the Third House's servants had just departed in order to fetch dessert. 

"Well, I'm not going to wait till they get back," said Jeffries. "One of us will have to fetch more water." 

Without another word, everyone's head swivelled in the direction of Meredith. There was no need for anyone to speak, though; Meredith had begun to rise, the moment he realized that no servants were present to undertake the task. This in itself caused no little merriment among the third-rankers. 

The water-barrel was located at the very back of the hall. Meredith made his way across the flagstones, smooth with age and kept well swept by the Head Master's servants. The windows were shut against the winter cold, but Meredith could hear the faint, raspy cry of a saltmarsh sharp-tailed swallow. Inside, the hall was filled with the chatter of its inhabitants and the smells of terrapin soup, fried oysters, and the "jiggers" made by the tuck-shop master during the winter season: beaten eggs, sugar, cream, snow, and a flavoring. 

The hall was very cold, and grew colder as one stepped farther away from the first-rankers' end of the table, for that was where the stoves were located. At the farthest end of the hall, where only the servants went, one nearly had to wear mittens. 

The Second House's servant-girl was standing at the water-barrel, filling a pitcher. She smiled at Meredith, forgetting to dip her eyes, and he smiled back, pleased to see a friendly face. Then he and the girl were elbowed out of the way. 

"You're too slow," said the younger of the two boys who had pushed past them. "We could eat an entire course in the time it takes you to fill a water pitcher." He held his glass under the spigot of the barrel, paying no attention to the water he had spilled when he had jogged the servant-girl out of the way. 

The servant-girl looked around, obviously seeking a place to set the pitcher so that she could go down onto her knees and mop up the mess. The elder boy plucked the pitcher out of her hands and put it on top of the barrel. "Maybe she's hoping somebody will come by and admire the view." He stared down pointedly at her chest. The servant-girl dipped her eyes; a blush ran across her cheek, her neck, and most likely down to the slight swell of breast underneath her shirtwaist. 

Meredith moved to the side, wondering whether he should retreat. He had recognized the two boys: they were the Second House boys he had heard speaking underneath the lamphouse. From the looks of it, they were fourth-formers, and he could see from the younger boy's mark that they were third-ranked, but that didn't mean they wouldn't cause Meredith trouble. 

For the moment, though, the boys had another victim in mind. The younger boy, grinning, had moved to block any attempt by the servant-girl to retreat, while the older boy was fingering the buttons of the girl's shirtwaist. "Don't be so quick to return to your duties," he told her. "I know why you sought employment at a school filled with boys. You like boys, don't you? Like them a lot? We've heard all about the baby. Odd how the baby doesn't seem to have a father. Did you even find out his name, before you slept with him?" 

As he spoke, the older boy began to hitch up the servant-girl's skirt. She was making pleading sounds now, and tears were sparkling on her lashes, which only seemed to amuse the older boy. The younger boy, standing behind her, took firm hold of her arms to prevent her from escaping. 

Remembering his father's advice, Meredith looked quickly around at the boys sitting at the table. Unfortunately, he could see no hope for salvation there. Davenham had not yet returned from Hoopersville with Pembroke, and most of the servants in both Houses had disappeared into the kitchens to retrieve the dessert dishes; the only one within view was the Second House's kicking-servant, who had just entered the hall, heavily laden with dessert cups. The Second House's first-rankers were hidden by the curve of the hall, the second-rankers were absorbed in their meal, and the third-rankers were merely amused by what was taking place at the water-barrel. Even the Third House's third-rankers were grinning, though that might have been due to Meredith's helplessness in the face of this crisis. 

He remembered Pembroke's words: _I have faith in you._

The older boy nearly had his hand under the servant-girl's skirt now. "If you're looking for someone to keep your bed warm," he told her, "I can help you to— Bloody blades!" This was shouted as Meredith, with all the force he had learned as a footer player, shoved the older boy aside. 

The younger boy, startled by this pre-emptive act, let go of the servant-girl; she slipped away, like a fish sliding off the deck of a boat to safe waters. 

Which left Meredith facing two angry boys from the Second House. 

"Jealous, are you?" said the older boy, obviously trying to discern Meredith's motives for such reckless behavior. 

"She's a servant." Meredith kept his voice low. The last thing he wanted was to attract the attention of the other boys of the Second House to the fact that two members of their House were currently under attack. "She can't say no. It's up to masters to protect her. Sir, if you think about it, I'm sure that you wouldn't want to—" 

But the "sir," which had slipped out of his mouth at the worst possible moment, caused the elder boy to turn away. "I'm not listening to lectures from a servant," he said to the younger boy. "Come on, she hasn't retreated far. We can still—" 

Meredith grabbed him and threw him against the water-barrel. 

There was a moment of stillness – a moment when the rest of the Second House table noticed what was taking place, a moment when the other members of the Third House quite noticeably did not come forward to aid Meredith. Then the older boy said through gritted teeth, "You'll regret that, bastard-of-a-slave. Hold him!" 

This shouted instruction was directed at the younger boy, who did his best to hold Meredith. The older boy was able to get three punches in before Meredith, feeling as battered as a player on the field, slipped free, grabbed the older boy by his tie, swung him around, and flung him toward the Second House table. 

Chairs screeched and students shouted as the boy crashed into the table. Fortunately, no food was present – the kicking-servant, still laden with his desserts, had rushed toward the other end of the table, presumably to be out of the path of the fracas. But there was the sound of a dozen glasses crashing to the ground as the boy hit the table. 

Every member of the Second House was on his feet now, and so was every member of the Third House. Meredith might count for nothing, but this fight was too spectacular to ignore. Already, the two Houses were shouting insults at one another; it was clear that fists would be next. 

But then the authorities arrived, in the form of the Head Master and the eleven House Masters. 

The insults died at once. Everyone turned their head to stare, not at the Second House boy, but at Meredith. 

The Head Master took in the scene with one sweep of the eyes. "Return to your meals," he ordered the students at both the tables. "Come here," he told the elder boy, who was rising to his feet, somewhat wobbly. "Stand here," he ordered Meredith and the younger boy. "Master Nevins? Master Morris?" He turned his attention to the House Masters whose lads were involved. 

House Master Nevins, who was holding a book of poetry in his hand, shook his head wordlessly. Master Morris said, "I'm sorry, sir, if my House's boys were at fault in this matter." 

"That is to be determined," the Head Master retorted crisply. "Can either of you tell me the meaning of this?" 

His words were directed toward the doorway at the end of the hall, where Rudd and Pembroke stood, their overcoats still on; Davenham was just slipping away from them, having clearly accompanied the two masters back to the hall. 

Rudd shrugged. Pembroke said, "Head Master, I regret to say that Master Rudd and I have only just arrived. We missed seeing what happened." 

"And the rest of you . . ." The Head Master turned his attention to the third-rankers at the two tables, who all seemed to be taking a special interest in their silverware now. Nearby, the servant-girl, shaken, was crying into her hands, while next to her the kicking-servant talked rapidly and earnestly to Carruthers's valet, who had turned his gaze toward the elder boy. 

The Head Master looked their way. He did not invite any of the servants to come forward; the high law forbade the use of servants as witnesses, since they could so easily be manipulated by any master who had power over them. However, it appeared that the Head Master was capable of drawing his own conclusions as to what had happened, for when he looked back at Meredith and the two third-formers, he reserved his first, dark look for the elder boy. 

None of the three of them, though, escaped from censure. "This is not a playing field," the Head Master said carefully. "This is not the proper place to make attacks, whether offensive or defensive. I expect good behavior from the boys of this school—" His gaze rested on the two Second House boys, then moved toward Meredith. "And I expect the prefects to take care of any discipline that needs to be dispensed. That is what they are here for. Do the three of you understand?" 

All three of them murmured apologies. Meredith had to fight to keep from falling to his knees to apologize for his reckless behavior. The Head Master gave them another swift, assessing glance before saying, "Go to your rooms. Stay there for the remainder of the day." 

Meredith bit his lip to keep from speaking. It was Rudd who spoke up, saying, "He's due on the field this afternoon. You're not going to take away one of our players, are you?" 

The Head Master sighed and looked over at House Master Nevins, who failed to notice, for he had returned to reading his book. It was House Master Morris who said, "Sir, I'm sure that no member of my House's team would want to win a victory simply because one of the Third House players had a momentary slip in judgment. I'm sure that neither of my boys will make this mistake again—" He paused to give a look at the fourth-formers that said clearly: _And my cane shall ensure that._ "As for . . . Meredith, is it? I'm certain that he has learned his lesson as well." 

The Head Master nodded. "Very well. We will treat this matter as closed, then – but no desserts for any of you," he added, looking toward the younger boy, who was beginning to make longing glances toward the desserts being delivered to the Second House table. "Leave the hall now." 

They all murmured acknowledgments of the order. The elder boy waited until the school masters had stepped away before hissing in Meredith's ear, "I'll make you pay for this, _servant_." 

Feeling sick, Meredith said nothing. He was saved, though, from immediate retribution, for Arthurs, who had come down from the head of the table to watch the proceedings, said something sharply which caused the elder boy to hurry over to his side. 

Overhearing a bit of what Arthurs said to the elder boy, Meredith felt himself grow even sicker. Of course – the elder boy was not a third-ranker at all, but a second-ranker, liegeman to Carruthers's closest friend. Meredith had attacked a second-ranked master; it was a wonder that he had escaped without a beating from the Head Master. 

Though judging from the looks that Rudd was sending his way, Meredith guessed that a beating still awaited him. He walked unsteadily to the hall doorway, which the younger boy had already stepped through. 

Fortunately, the younger boy was not waiting in the corridor to take his revenge. The corridor was still except for the faint echo from the chatter of boys inside the hall. Meredith, his head lowered, made his way slowly toward the door leading to the outside— 

—and then stopped abruptly. He had forgotten that his path would take him past the sanatorium. 

The sanatorium door was open. Carruthers sat in a chair, allowing his bare chest to be bandaged by one of the male nurses employed by the school doctor. Standing next to him, at a respectful distance, was his valet, who had apparently slipped out of the hall during the Head Master's chiding, bringing the servant-girl with him. 

The valet had his arm around the servant-girl, who still appeared too shaken to speak; the valet was doing so on her behalf. As the valet offered his report, too quietly for Meredith to hear, Carruthers turned his gaze suddenly away. 

His eyes met Meredith's. Meredith felt a jarring sensation, as though a footer ball had exploded upon his body. For a breathless moment, he simply stared back at Carruthers, unable to think what he should do. 

Then he heard his name being called. 

He turned quickly. Pembroke was standing nearby, his face dark in the flickering light of the corridor lamps. "Meredith," he said, "I never want to see that sort of behavior from you again." 

Meredith lowered his eyes, wondering what he should say. Pembroke did not wait to hear whether Meredith had any defense to make. He turned round and strolled back to the hall entrance, where Rudd was awaiting him. Both masters disappeared into the hall. 

Meredith turned back. But even as he did so, the nurse closed the sanatorium door, shutting Meredith off from Carruthers.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

"O ye sons of men, how long will ye turn my glory into shame?" 

High into the dome spiralled the treble voice of a first-former; on the next note, the rest of the choir joined him, raising their voices to exclaim the great words of Remigeus: "Offer the sacrifice of righteousness, and put your trust in the master." 

Meredith, walking round the ambulatory encircling the chapel's sanctuary, heard not only the choir, practicing their pieces for the morning service, but also the tap of his own footsteps, resounding against the curve of the rough stone walls. 

He paused, looking about the dim ambulatory, where only a few stained-glass windows provided light. When the chapel had first been built, in the fourteenth tri-century, there had been more light in the ambulatory, for the candlelight in the central sanctuary had spilled out to the ambulatory that surrounded it, through great arched doorways. 

The arches were half-circles. That had been significant. The fashion at the time had been to build arches with points, to reflect the Reformed Traditionalists' belief that men should aspire to rise in rank before the ends of their lives. But the architect of Narrows School – Traditionalist to the core – had built instead the curved arches that were said to have been common in Remigeus's time. And he had built them in a magnificent manner, flanked by solid columns that were carved with the upward spiral of rebirth. 

Now the arched doorways could barely be seen. The growth of the school had resulted in the installation of tiered seats in the circular sanctuary. Most of the arched doorways were blocked by the back walls of these seats, while the former glory of the chapel – a set of jewel-like stained-glass windows with scenes from the childhood of Remigeus, set above each arch – were next to invisible, since within the sanctuary, a servants' gallery now blocked all light from passing through those windows. 

So the entrances into the sanctuary looked dull and uninspiring, from the perspective of someone walking around the ambulatory. What was left was the ambulatory itself, and here too the changes of time could be seen. Where once the ambulatory had been crammed with devotional icons, now only memorial plaques could be seen, bearing the names of students who had fallen in wars between the landsteads – or, in one particularly lengthy plaque, in the Tri-National War. 

One icon, however, was too central to the chapel's reason for existence to be removed. Meredith halted and stared up at the icon of Remigeus and his Master. 

The Master was never named, either by the Traditionalists or the Reformed Traditionalists, though the latter group believed that the Master had later been reborn as Brun. In his later rebirth, the Reformed Traditionalists said, the Master had willingly paid for his evil deeds by outwardly serving as slave to Celadon – though, at that High Master's request, he had also served as master to Celadon, who was in truth the rebirth of Remigeus. 

So said the Reformed Traditionalists, who put a pleasant end to the tale of Remigeus and his Master. From the perspective of the Traditionalists, the tale was far more terrible. 

The icon told the story, in the simplest manner possible, through the cycle of death, transformation, and rebirth. On the outer rim of the circle of the icon were three images from the life of Remigeus. In the lower right-hand corner, Remigeus transformed the lives of his fellow slaves by teaching them new rules of obedience to their masters. In the lower left-hand corner, Remigeus lay bound to a table, preparing to undergo an agonizing death at the hands of his Master – a death which began, it was whispered, with a terrible rape. And at the top of the circle rim was Remigeus again, reborn after his martyrdom. Since the artist had been a Traditionalist, he had not painted the face of the newborn child, instead focussing his artistry on showing the joy of a group of masters and slaves, welcoming the new baby into the world. 

But it was the central part of the picture that Meredith fixed his eyes upon. 

On a dark landscape stood a dark Master, preparing to kill the slave who had dared to voice his views on true service, without his Master's permission. At his feet knelt Remigeus, willingly accepting his death at the Master's hands. It was said that word of the Master's anger had reached Remigeus at a time when it would have been easy for him to escape to foreign lands. But such was the slave's loyalty that he had not only obeyed his Master's order to come forward – he had also brought the symbol of his unfailing faithfulness. 

There he knelt, his head bowed, knowing what terrible fate awaited him, while he offered up in his hands the rope with which his Master would bind him to his death. 

It was unclear, from the angle at which the icon painter had chosen to position him, whether Remigeus was on one knee or two. Perhaps this was not a coincidence. Perhaps too it was not a coincidence that Remigeus was offering the rope in a manner that echoed so strongly the gesture whereby a liegeman reached forth and took his liege-master's hands to kiss them, at the end of the oath of allegiance. The kiss echoed the first gesture of the ceremony, when the liege-master kissed his liegeman-to-be on the mouth, in a manner that had denoted affection and protection since ancient times. 

Meredith stared longingly at the painting. During Meredith's own exchange of oaths with his liege-master, Pembroke had omitted the kiss. At the time, Meredith had told himself that this had been due to a slip of mind; only in the following months, as Pembroke continued to neglect Meredith in favor of Rudd, had Meredith wondered whether Pembroke had truly pledged his protection to his new liegeman. 

Meredith shook his head inwardly at his faithless thoughts. This morning, he had received all the proof he needed that Pembroke took his duties as liege-master seriously. "I have faith in you" – surely he would not have said that to just any third back, nor taken such care to encourage a random third back to become a better player. Somehow, using inner resources he had not yet discovered, Meredith must show himself worthy of Pembroke's trust. 

His eye travelled away from Remigeus, with his half-slave, half-liegeman gesture, living during a time when no distinction was made between slaves and liegemen. The Master towered over Remigeus, dark anger on his face, but as always, Meredith thought he could see something else: a slight uncertainty in the Master's expression, as though he were approaching his own transformation. 

Perhaps, after all, the artist had been a Reformed Traditionalist. Or perhaps he was simply a Traditionalist who took seriously the promise that transformation was an opportunity offered to all men. To Meredith, the picture offered an ambiguity: a Master who was abusive at the same time he was holding within him the promise of loving protection. 

"Master," he whispered, and began to bend his knee. 

He was arrested by the sound of footsteps. He quickly rose, just in time to see a group of choir members emerge through the one arch that was not blocked. 

They gave him an odd look. Had they seen him begin to kneel? Usually only Traditionalists knelt in front of icons, in hopes that cycle back or cycle forward would occur, and they would be granted a glimpse of wisdom from their past or future. 

Meredith was not a Traditionalist; everyone knew that. If his father had remained a Traditionalist, Meredith would not be at this school, an ambiguity in his own right. 

His heart throbbing painfully now, Meredith turned away and hastily walked toward the door of the corridor that led to the playing fields. 

o—o—o

"Second backs – _go_!" With his field glasses firmly pressed against his eyes with his right hand, Pembroke lowered his left arm. The second backs swarmed out of the trench, made their way easily past the barbed-wire barrier, and began racing toward the western end of the field, where the Dredger forwards were dodging the Tonger forwards and passing the ball to one another. The Dredger second backs, following some previously issued orders, were already strung out to guard the halfway line, trying to block the Tonger forwards, and ready to maul any forward who crossed over to the Tongers' end of the field. 

Meredith guessed that Pembroke had held back his own second backs until now only because he was hoping to lure the Dredger forwards onto the eastern end of the field, so that they would venture close enough to the eastern trench that the Tonger third backs could open fire. The Dredgers weren't taking the bait, though. They were evidently trying for a kick at the halfway line, this being the closest point at which a forward could hope to reach the goal by a kick. 

One of the Dredger forwards tossed the ball to Arthurs. Dodging past two Tonger forwards with ease, Arthurs reached the halfway line, where his team's kicking-servant had just run onto the field, managing to get there before the Tonger second backs, who would have torn him bloody. Arthurs tossed the ball into his hands; the servant promptly flung himself face-first onto the field's halfway line, stretching out his arms to hold the ball in readiness. 

Arthurs kicked. The ball soared easily over the eastern goalpost, landing behind the trench where Meredith and the other third backs waited. A roar of delight arose from the Second House spectators. At the southern bleacher, the school masters applauded politely, other than House Master Morris, who leapt to his feet to cheer, and House Master Nevins, who was busy reading. The Head Master shouted, "Well done, lads!" as he always did when any team scored. 

The Tonger second backs had finally reached the halfway line. As Arthurs strolled off the field in a leisurely manner, the Tonger second backs took out their anger on the Dredgers' kicking-servant, kicking the hapless man where he lay. His cries of pain came clearly from the field. 

"Leave up, men!" Pembroke shouted and then muttered in disgust, "There are plenty more where he came from. Blast it, why do they waste their energy on useless enterprises?" 

The second backs, still red-faced with fury, made their desolate way back to the Tongers' trench. The Tonger forwards stood panting on the field; Edwards, leaning over, was bracing himself on his knees. The Dredger forwards had retreated to the Second House bleachers where, in contradiction to all predictions, Carruthers was sitting, still dressed in what remained of his white uniform of Captaincy, and wrapped in a blanket against the wind. The doctor hovered nearby, frowning with disapproval – and indeed, Carruthers looked as pale as an oyster. His forwards – perhaps to hear better or perhaps because they felt that a little formality was needed in this situation – had each gone down on one knee to listen to what Carruthers had to say. 

Meredith, who had been holding his rifle in position over the edge of the trench, brought it down to check it for the dozenth time. It was still fully loaded. The Dredgers, evidently not wishing to risk losing any of their second backs while their Captain was out of play, had made all of their goals by kicking at the halfway line. Eight times their kicking-servant had managed to crawl his way off the field after enduring the traditional punishment allotted to servants who assisted with a successful kick. The Dredger medics were treating him now; they had nothing else to do, for none of the Dredger forwards had held onto the ball long enough to be injured by the ball, so swift had been their successful goals. 

The Tonger forwards, by contrast, had accomplished their scores by running the ball under the Dredgers' goalpost and touching it down three times. On the last try, Fletcher had still been touching the ball when the final second ticked down. His thick leather gloves had prevented his hands from receiving more than nasty stings, but the gunpowder had penetrated his sleeves and burnt his arms. He was still on the field, though, no longer able to hold a ball in his arms, but determined to help the other Tonger forwards keep the Dredgers from reaching the halfway line. 

One of the referees' servants walked past the Tongers' trench, gingerly holding the ball in his hands, as though he expected it to explode at any minute. That was not impossible. The upper landsteaders, who were forbidden by law from using any foreign technology invented after the Embargo Act of 1912 – and precious little native technology invented after that date either – had nonetheless managed to wheedle the High Masters' council into permitting an exception where sports technology was concerned. The grenade-ball was controlled by a wireless connection, which meant that its timer was supposed to stop ticking the moment that the game clock did. It was not unknown, however, for the ball to decide to explode anyway, even while the clock was stopped. 

Giving up on the pretense that his rifle needed care, Meredith glanced at the clock, which had stopped at the one-hundred-and-seventieth second mark. Less than three minutes left in the match. The Dredgers were two points ahead. That meant the Tongers couldn't win through a one-point goal kick; they needed to score a two-point try by touching down the ball behind the Dredgers' goalpost. 

But how were they to do so if the Dredgers persisted in kicking at mid-field? If the Dredgers had formed a maul in the Tonger half of the field, in order to prevent a Tonger forward from scoring a try or goal in the Dredger half of the field, the Tonger third backs would have had a chance to shoot the Dredger second backs who were forming the maul. If enough second backs had been shot out of the match, a Tonger victory would be certain. But the Dredgers had never allowed the ball to pass out of Dredger territory when they had possession of the ball; they would kick at mid-field rather than risk their second backs in Tonger territory. It was a slower way to victory than scoring tries, but it was working. 

Meredith decided that Pembroke would order his forwards to attempt two kicks from the halfway line. It would be an unconventional solution, given that only three minutes remained on the clock, but the conventional solution – to try to break past the formidable barrier of the Dredgers' mauling second backs – would take too much time, given that the Dredgers hadn't lost a single second back since the match began. 

As usual, though, Meredith was confounded in his expectations. That was why Pembroke was the best Games Captain in the school. He considered the conventional solutions, and then he considered the unconventional solutions, and then he chose the solution that nobody had thought of. 

"All right," said Pembroke, taking off his helmet in order to run his hand through his hair. He glanced over at the team's forwards, who had just jumped down into the trench in order to receive Pembroke's orders. "We're going to score a try." 

Nobody said anything, though the forwards exchanged looks with one another. 

Pembroke continued, "I don't care which of you gets the ball, but I want one of you forwards inside the Dredgers' maul, three-quarters of the way down to the western end of the field, by the time that clock reaches the minute mark. Don't try to dodge the Dredger second backs; I _want_ you trapped by their second backs within a maul in Dredger territory, close to the Dredger goalpost. Do you understand?" 

Clearly, no one did; everyone was exchanging uneasy glances now. Pembroke ignored this. He continued, "The other two forwards, forget about trying to block the opposing forwards. The moment the maul forms, I want both of you at the halfway line, ready to assist for a try . . . but don't be too obvious about what we're doing. Wait for my signal before re-entering the Dredgers' territory." 

"Are you thinking that the trapped forward will have a chance to break free of the maul and pass to the other two forwards?" Edwards broke in. "Because, if so, I have to tell you, that's not going to happen – not in the amount of time we have left on the clock. None of us can break free of a six-man Dredger maul in the space of less than three minutes." 

There was a grudging murmur of agreement from the other forwards – even from Fletcher, who held high his skills at escaping from maul traps. 

"You will," said Pembroke flatly. Then, without bothering to respond to Edwards's objection, he turned his attention to the second backs. "Try to look conventional for the first few seconds of play. I know that can be difficult for you." He smiled, and the second backs grinned back; the Third House had a habit of recruiting second backs who did everything except what the customs of footer demanded. "Stay in our territory; make it seem as though you're expecting the Dredger forwards to attempt to score a try, though we know that's not going to happen. They'll attempt a kick again, and they'll succeed if we let them get that far. So the moment the maul forms around one of our forwards, I want you to come forward and form a line, blocking the second backs from reaching our territory. We've been playing defensive up till now; we're going to switch to offensive. We're going to keep the Dredgers from coming within smelling distance of our territory." 

Meredith was beginning to feel uneasy; glancing at the other third backs, he saw that none of them had figured out yet what Pembroke's words implied. Instead, they were all looking disappointed that they would not have the opportunity during this match to shoot any Dredger second backs. 

"Third backs . . ." Pembroke looked at them all for a long, ominous moment. "You're going to attack the Dredgers' trench." 

The third backs groaned simultaneously, all but Meredith, who was staring down at his own hands, white-knuckled on the rifle. "Sir," said Hobson, "with all due respect, that's an even more unlikely scenario than one of our forwards breaking free of a full Dredger maul. The Dredger third backs have never given up their trench – not in the whole time I've been at this school." 

There were nods all around, not only from the third backs, but also from the second backs and the forwards; the latter were beginning to look perilously close to rebellion. Pembroke let his gaze graze over all of the players before settling upon one of the third backs. "Meredith," he said, "you appear to be the only one here who has been intelligent enough to figure out what I'm ordering. Kindly explain my plan to your team-mates." 

Warmth filled Meredith at this unexpected accolade. He said, "Yes, mas— Yes, sir. The reason that you want the maul close to the Dredgers' trench is because we're being offensive, not defensive. We aren't taking their trench in order to prevent the Dredger third backs from shooting our second backs if they form a maul near the Dredgers' goalpost. We're taking the trench so that we can kill the Dredgers' second backs. They'll be so close to their own trench that we third backs can pick them off easily, if we manage to win the Dredgers' trench. The Dredgers won't be expecting to be shot in that direction; we'll take them by surprise." 

There was a moment of silence as the team absorbed this plan, rather as though they were first-form maths students who had been privileged to be present when the mathematical proof that permitted faster-than-light travel had first been announced to the world. Then Jeffries said, "Shouldn't we just shoot the Dredger second backs when we reach the halfway line? Then we wouldn't have to waste time trying to win the Dredger trench." 

"No," said Pembroke. "That's too risky. There's a reason why Captains generally keep third backs in the trenches, with their backs protected by a wall of earth. You're allowed to shoot second backs in order to protect forwards, but you're vulnerable to attacks by forwards. You're not permitted to shoot first-rankers, so any forward behind you could easily creep up on you and do the same to you as both our sides do to kicking-servants. I'm sure that none of you want to be treated as servants." 

Eight of the third backs nodded hastily. Pembroke's gaze flicked over to Meredith – who had not nodded – and then quickly away. "I _think_ that Carruthers will keep his forwards at the Dredgers' goalpost, but I can't be sure of that. So you'll make your attack on their trench. By the time you reach that end of the field, the maul will have already formed, so you needn't worry about the Dredger second backs. All that you need to do is make your way past the Dredger forwards, attack the Dredger trench, drive off the Dredger third backs, and shoot as many of the Dredger second backs as needed to free our forward from the maul." 

"Oh, is _that_ all?" muttered Jeffries, which earned him a cold look from Pembroke. 

"I'm going to give you as much time as I can to accomplish your goal, but that isn't much time," their Captain concluded. "We need at least thirty seconds to get the ball from where the maul forms to the goal. I can't promise that the maul will form in less than one minute's time. That leaves you ninety seconds in which to attack the trench, take possession, and free our forward." He looked at each third back in turn, his gaze ending at Meredith. "I know that you can do it. You are the best third backs in this school. I have faith in you." 

Something swelled in Meredith – something light inside, like a buoyant gas trying to break free. Then, before the lightness could reach the surface, a heavy weight fell upon him as Pembroke said, "Meredith, I'm leaving you in charge of the third backs. I'm going to stay in Tonger territory, to make less obvious the fact that we expect all the action to take place in Dredger territory. I want you to judge when the maul is about to form, make sure that the third backs are at the halfway line by the time the maul starts, and direct whatever fighting takes place after that. Understand?" 

"Yes, sir," he murmured, utterly miserable. 

Pembroke's gaze lingered on him a moment before it broke away. "All right," he said, putting his helmet back on, "the Games Master is looking impatient. Let's get back to our positions and demonstrate to the school what the Third House Tongers have to show against those dirty Dredgers." 

"Corpses," said Hobson bleakly as their Captain, forwards, and second backs trotted onto the field, returning to where they had been when the kicked goal had halted the clock. "We're dead. The Dredger third backs will scrape us clean and leave nothing alive. There's no way we can win that trench." 

"Of course we can," said Jeffries, but there was no heart to his words. The other Tongers in their trench were looking equally gloomy. 

Nobody was looking in Meredith's direction. He put aside his growing panic to try to think the matter through. If he had been given time to discuss this with Pembroke . . . But Pembroke had given him no time. Instead, his liege-master had left him in charge. And Meredith had prior orders from Pembroke to show initiative. 

"Listen," he said, breaking into the continued grumbles, "I have an idea." 

This produced sighs from most of the third backs and snickers from Jeffries. Meredith turned to Jeffries, his heart beating, knowing that he was playing for higher stakes than he ever had before. "Shut up," he said. "You don't outrank me, and Pembroke placed me in charge here. You have to follow my orders." 

Jeffries sneered. "Follow the orders of a _servant_? I don't think so." 

"Oh, stop it." Unexpectedly, it was Hobson who spoke. "This isn't the time for ragging. Meredith is right – Pembroke placed him in charge here. And anyway," he added with a shrug, "Meredith is the best shooter on the team. I'll bet that any plan he comes up with is a decent one." 

Jeffries gave another snicker, but left it at that. All of the other third backs remained silent, like servants awaiting the word of their master. Meredith took a deep breath. "All right," he said, "this is what we're going to do." 

o—o—o

Carruthers was on his feet now, much to the dismay of the doctor. Meredith could see the older man standing next to Carruthers, gesturing toward the bleachers as he spoke. Carruthers made some quiet response but did not move his eyes from the western end of the field. He still had a blanket over his shoulders, and his head was bare of his playing helmet. His hair stirred in the wind. His dark grey eyes – so odd in contrast to the fairness of his hair and complexion – were shadowed in the late afternoon brightness, which spread his shadow long. The shadow pointed northeast, toward the Tongers' trench. 

"This had better work," muttered Jeffries as he slipped an extra magazine of pellets into his jacket. "You've taken the easy role – you won't have to face the third backs." 

Meredith said nothing for a moment. Play had begun seconds before; to his relief, the Dredger forwards had not moved from their previous position, guarding the goalpost immediately in front of the Dredger trench. What worried him most now, other than whether the other third backs would carry out their duties successfully, was whether someone would creep up on him from behind. As Pembroke had said, a third back outside the trench was vulnerable to attack from the forwards; the rules of the game did not permit third-ranked masters to attack first-ranked masters. Even second-ranked masters could do nothing more than block and trap the forwards. This was merely a reflection of the high law, which severely penalized attacks on first-ranked masters; indeed, a servant who used violence against a first-ranked master was likely to find himself shipped off to Prison City. But it meant that, during the minutes that Meredith and the other third backs were crossing the field, they would be as naked as terrapins outside their shells. 

"Get ready," he said, and he heard clicks throughout the trench as the other third backs switched their bolts off the safety position. The maul had not yet formed, but Meredith dared not wait that long; he needed the third backs to be at the halfway line before then. Thirty seconds to reach the line, and the third backs would need to run faster than that if they were to reach the trenches in time. . . . 

"Run like fuck, lads," he murmured, unconsciously echoing Pembroke's phrasing. "Get ready . . . steady . . . Third backs, _go_!" 

With a roar, the third backs swarmed over the lip of the trench and squeezed their way through the maze of barbed wire that formed the area between the trench and the goalpost. Hobson, who almost invariably got himself entangled in the wire during attacks, miraculously managed to make it through without a scratch. Pembroke, standing between the halfway line and the goalpost, did not turn to look back, but he stuck his thumb in the air to show his approval of the attack's timing. Warmed by this praise, Meredith nearly soared his way to the halfway line, though he took care to lag behind the rest of the third backs. 

The shots came the moment that the Tonger third backs crossed the line. The rifles could shoot further, but third backs weren't allowed to shoot opposing third backs unless their opponents had entered the team's territory. Once the opponents were over the line, they were fair game to everyone: third backs, second backs, and forwards. 

The second backs, Meredith saw in the brief space of time before he reached the line, would be no trouble; right on cue, they formed a maul around Edwards, who had been kicking the ball back and forth between himself and Fletcher in an idle manner suggesting that he had all the time in the world in which to make a try. Aspinall, the third Tonger forward, was already in position near the halfway line. Now Fletcher sped back toward Tonger territory, neatly dodging the attacking third backs. "Defend or die!" he shouted to Meredith in his usual amiable manner. 

By the time Meredith reached the line, the other third backs on the Tonger team were passing the maul. Edwards, in a manner not obvious enough to make clear his motive, was allowing himself to be trapped within the maul. The Dredger forwards were still there; one of them moved forward to intercept Hobson, the first third back to reach the goalpost. Hobson dodged aside, slipped on the slick ground, and fell straight into the barbed wire. He screamed. 

Meredith groaned, but he had other things to worry about, for the shooting was growing fiercer. He could protect himself by keeping hidden behind the maul, which was nearing the goal line, but he did so only until he reached the middle of Dredger territory. He dared not come any closer to the maul; his plan depended on him remaining unnoticed until it was too late. 

So he dodged to the side, making himself a clear target for the Dredger guns. In the next moment, as he had hoped, a pellet hit him. 

He fell to the ground, shouting with pain. This was not acting; he really was feeling agony. The pellets could not enter anyone's body; they were designed to explode upon impact, opening up the thin lining to spatter pigs' blood on their target. The blood helped the referee to identify which players had been shot, but the blood was also symbolic of actual pain; being shot by a blood-pellet fired from an air rifle was as bad as being hit by a solid plank. 

It had been a gamble – a big gamble – to let himself be shot; if he had been shot in either of his arms, the match would have been lost. But the shooter, perhaps trying to prevent him from coming any closer to the trench, had shot his thigh instead. He writhed on the ground for several seconds, partly because his body demanded it, but mainly because he wanted anyone watching to see how badly hurt he was, so that they would lose interest in him, thinking he was out of the match. 

He wondered dimly whether Pembroke would run forward to check on his liegeman's welfare. Pembroke did not. Meredith felt something break inside him, far sharper than the pain of the pellet. 

The shots had ended; that, and the shouting at the western end of the field, told him that the Tonger third backs had reached the Dredgers' trench. For a moment, he could hear nothing except garbled shouts from the trench, the grunts of the second backs mauling Edwards, and the continued screams of Hobson; no medic with any sense would come forward to retrieve an injured player during a trench attack. Then clearly, through the human sounds, came the crack of gunfire. 

He was still on his back, holding his rifle loosely; in an instant, he had rolled onto his stomach and had his rifle in position. He spent a brief second determining that the Dredger forwards were still at their goal line; in that second, he caught a glimpse of Jeffries, standing at the far end of the Dredgers' trench and carefully aiming his rifle again at the Dredger second backs while the remaining four uninjured Tonger third backs fought valiantly to hold back the nine Dredger third backs from attacking the Tongers' shooter. 

Still breathless from the pain of his wound, and cold from lying stomach-down on the ground, Meredith lined the sights of his rifle. The Dredger second backs were surging back and forth, making a difficult target. If he shot poorly, the pellet might hit one of the forbidden parts of the body, such as the neck, and the Tongers would be forced to forfeit the match. A poorly placed pellet might even hit Edwards, in the middle of the maul. But Meredith had little time in which to worry about such matters; the clock had just chimed the three-quarter minute mark. He had fifteen seconds in which to kill as many second backs as possible. 

Jeffries shot again. This time his pellet hit his target; one of the second backs staggered out of the maul and fell to his knees. His back was to Meredith. Ignoring the sights he had taken before, Meredith swung his rifle over and pulled the trigger. There, on the circle woven onto the back of the player's uniform, the bloody pellet exploded. The second back, grunting, took the impact without falling, but it didn't matter. He had been shot dead, according to footer rules; he was out of the match. 

The remaining five second backs had seamlessly repaired the damaged maul, clustering tighter together. In theory, four men could maintain a maul; Meredith decided to test that theory. His shot hit one of the second backs' arms; the Dredger yelped but did not fall out of the maul. 

It had taken the spectators these ten seconds or so to figure out that the Tonger shooters were flanking both sides of the maul; now the watching members of the Second and Third Houses surged to their feet, roaring so loudly that they must have been heard on both shores of the Bay. The Head Master was on his feet as well, waving his cap wildly. Meredith was aware of this only dimly, for at that moment, Jeffries shouted, and he disappeared from view. One of the Dredger third backs had reached him and pulled him down into the depths of trench. There was a sickening crunching sound, and Jeffries's voice cut off abruptly. 

Hobson's screams had died away; most likely he had fainted from the pain. Meredith could no longer hear any sounds of fighting from the Dredgers' trench; in all likelihood, the remaining Tonger third backs had been knocked unconscious. No one was left now to help Edwards escape the maul except Meredith. 

In the midst of taking his sights for another shot, Meredith glanced over at the Dredger forwards, and his heart jerked. One of the forwards was missing. Was he simply hidden behind the maul, which was now lurching westward as Edwards fervently tried to break free? Because if the forward wasn't behind the maul, and if he wasn't anywhere in Meredith's view— 

A shadow fell over Meredith. Whirling onto his back and half-raising himself, he had just enough time to see that the Dredger behind him was not wearing a forward's uniform. Then Meredith raised his rifle. 

He jerked his rifle upwards at the last moment, as he recognized who was behind him. His attempt to raise the rifle out of danger's range was too late. His finger, twitching from the fear rushing through him, tightened on the trigger. The rifle's rebound sent him onto his back again. 

By the time he raised himself onto his elbows, the field had fallen silent. The only movement came from the Games Master, rushing forward and waving his handkerchief to indicate to the clock-timers on the touch-line that the play was to be halted. Meredith barely looked at him. As his rifle fell from his hand, he stared at Carruthers, lying motionless on the ground, with blood spattered upon his face.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

By good fortune, Rudd didn't kill Meredith after the match. By poor fortune, this was only because Rudd had gone home abruptly to spend time with his ailing father. By the time that Rudd returned, a week later, Meredith had already been wrapped tightly in barbed wire and had several grenade-balls exploded on his body. 

The first and least unexpected punishment was his removal from the team. This took place in the changing room, with all of his teammates watching as Pembroke stripped Meredith's uniform from him. Then Pembroke took Meredith's House cap from his head and burned it. 

After that came the games committee. Meredith had always considered that committee a less formidable body than the prefects' council of his House, simply because Rudd was not on it. But he had underestimated the effects of being gazed upon by eleven angry students from eleven Houses while the Games Master scribbled notes that would be delivered to the Head Master afterwards, in order to determine whether Meredith should be sent down. 

There had arisen, at one alarming point in the proceedings, a possibility that Pembroke would be punished too, since the Captain had left a third back in charge of an important strategic manoeuver. Meredith had been forced to point out that he had disobeyed Pembroke's order to shoot from the Dredgers' trench rather than from the field. He half expected Pembroke to tell the committee about their earlier conversation in the changing room; when Pembroke did not, Meredith felt as though that broken object inside him had developed jagged edges that tore at his innards. 

The committee had contented itself with beating Meredith. Eleven members, three strokes each; he had never had such a long beating, even under Rudd. By the end, he was screaming like a servant-child. Afterwards, he received looks of contempt from the committee members. 

Carruthers had not been there. That was a mercy, until Meredith remembered that Carruthers was not there because he was still lying unconscious in the sanatorium. 

After the games committee came the Head Master. Meredith had already resigned himself to being sent down; what actually happened was far worse. The Head Master was disappointed in him – very, very disappointed. He had expected better from Meredith; he had not thought that a talented footer such as Meredith would engage in such reckless carelessness. . . . Meredith stumbled out of the Head Master's office in tears, which earned him further contemptuous looks, this time from the Head Master's servants. 

He had gone to dinner then; the moment he sat down at the table for his House, every student near him stood up and walked away. He knew that the games committee had not ordered that he be cut by the other students, but it appeared that the members of his House had made their own assessment of the proper punishment for the third back who, by committing a foul that forced the Tongers to forfeit the match, had lost them their chance at winning the Spring Term Cup. 

Davenham was one of the students who now refused to speak to Meredith. 

It had taken Meredith a week to get up the courage to visit his liege-master's bedroom to make his apology. Pembroke would not even allow him into the room. He had said coldly, "I have nothing to say to you," and had shut the door in Meredith's face. 

And now came Rudd. Standing by Rudd's door, Meredith felt himself shuddering. He was so sick he was sure he would faint the moment he stepped over the threshold. He leaned against the wall next to the door, trying to stop shaking. Gradually, he became aware that Rudd was speaking to someone. 

". . . would have thought you'd welcome this chance. If the pellet hadn't skimmed the side of your head, you'd be dead now. As it is, you were knocked unconscious with a concussion for over twenty-four hours—" 

"I'm well aware of that fact." Carruthers's voice was dry. "I'm also aware that Meredith already received his punishment for that. What you're talking about is not his shooting of me, but his disobedience to his liege-master's orders. Why should I be burdened with disciplining another master's liegeman? For that matter, why are you involving yourself in this? It's a matter between Pembroke and Meredith." 

"Pembroke referred the matter over to me." Rudd's voice was light. "As for why I'm letting you do it . . . Sweet blood, man, you act as though I'm making you sweat like a servant. I'm giving you a gift." 

"I don't trust gifts from you." Carruthers's voice turned flat. 

"No?" Rudd sounded positively cheerful now. "Shall I tell my father that? Shall I tell my poor, ill father that I presented a peace offering to the heir to the Second Landstead, and that the son of Comrade Carruthers spurned it? Perhaps I should tell my father's tongers too; they might like to know how dredgers act in response to overtures of peace." 

There was a long silence. Then Carruthers said, in a voice so soft that Meredith could barely hear it, "You bastard-of-a-slave." 

Rudd's only response was to laugh. Carr said something else, deep in the throat like the growl of a baited dog, which Meredith strained to hear. But at that moment a hand descended upon his shoulder. 

He jumped in place and twisted round. Pembroke stood behind him. "Why are you eavesdropping on the Head?" his liege-master demanded. 

"Sir, Master Rudd sent word that he wishes to speak with me, but he's with Master Carruthers. I wasn't sure . . ." 

His eyes cold, Pembroke reached past Meredith and knocked. Rudd shouted an invitation to enter. Pembroke opened the door and looked at Meredith. Meredith stepped through. 

He turned his head to look at Pembroke, whom he expected to follow him into the room – it was one of a liege-master's duties, to be present at any major disciplining of his liegeman – but Pembroke had already closed the door. So, reluctantly, Meredith turned back toward the two Heads. 

Their expressions were as Meredith might have expected: Carruthers's face was unrevealing, while Rudd's was gleeful. In his hand, he was twirling his cane – one of his great treasures, as he had said more than once. It had been a present from his father, at the time he first became a prefect. "Ah, Meredith," he said, "I thought you might want to have a chance to meet with the master you've been trying so hard to cozy up with." He tossed the cane to Carruthers, who caught it neatly. "Here you go, man." 

Carruthers replied, just as soft as before, "I don't do this sort of thing in front of an audience." 

Rudd's smile turned to a smirk. "I imagine not. If you need lubricant, it's in the cigar box on the table. Or you can make do without. Take as long as you like." As he spoke, he swaggered toward the door. 

Meredith had already begun to move toward Rudd's table, at the foot of his bed. This was presumptuous of him, for Carruthers might prefer him over a chair, but he felt so sick now that he was sure he would faint like a girl at any moment. Pulling down his trousers, he laid his torso across the cold wood, panting to keep dizziness at bay. His skin had turned cold and clammy. 

Carruthers said nothing. There was a space of stillness that allowed Meredith to contemplate what came next; he squeezed his eyes shut, striving to hold back the tears that were forming there. He must do credit to Master Pembroke, he reminded himself. Not that Pembroke cared. . . . 

The crack of the cane as it landed shot through the room like the sound of a boat's bow crashing into a rock. Meredith gasped, but the cane had not yet struck him. Carruthers was using Rudd's old trick, of beating the chair first in order to raise Meredith's fear. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four strokes, five strokes . . . Meredith lost count after a while and simply lay in the cold pool of his sweat, shivering uncontrollably, feeling each wave of nausea as though it were a swell of winter-cold sea. 

Carruthers was well past three times three times three in his promised punishment when he delivered a stroke which cracked so loud that Meredith felt as though he'd witnessed the cracking of the ice on every inlet in the Bay. 

Then there was silence. Meredith covered his face with his arm. The tears were leaking out of his eyes now, heedless of his attempts at control; he was afraid that Carruthers would see, and that his contempt for Meredith would deepen. Meredith's throat ached in his effort to hold back the sobs there. He felt like the weakest girl in all of the Dozen Landsteads, crying before his well-deserved punishment had even been delivered. 

After a while, he became aware that the silence had lasted overly long. 

He wiped his face on his arm and cautiously looked back. The room was empty. Rudd's cane lay on the floor, broken in two. 

o—o—o

After he had pulled up his trousers, Meredith stood for a long time, sure that Carruthers had departed only in order to fetch his own cane. The matter was finally settled by Rudd's entrance. He seemed purely delighted at the sight of his fractured cane. 

"Carruthers told me he broke my cane on you," Rudd announced, kicking the pieces out of the way. "I told him it was worth the cost of the cane to hear the strokes he was making. Let me see the stripes." 

With what little wits he had left, Meredith replied, "Sir, he doesn't want me to show them to anyone." 

Rudd roared with laughter. "He took you in the backside first, didn't he? I could hear that it took him a while to get started with the cane. So much for the much-vaunted purity of the heir of the Second Landstead." The mixture of glee and contempt in Rudd – his delight in an enemy's misdeeds – sent another shiver of coldness through Meredith's body. He had a sudden vision of Rudd as High Master, exultantly reporting on how many deaths Comrade Carruthers's dredgers had caused. 

"All right, get out," Rudd said cheerfully. "I don't have time to inspect you anyway; Pembroke is due here any minute now. You're excused from study hall tonight," he added in one of his periodic exercises in false magnanimity. "I don't suppose that you want to sit down any time soon, do you?" And with another roar of laughter, Rudd pushed him out the door. 

o—o—o

An hour later – the pause was to allow him time to vomit into his chamber-pot and then make an attempt at cleaning himself up – Meredith stood in a recess in the corridor opposite Carruthers's rooms. 

The corridor was still. The students in school were having their supper now, but Meredith, poking his head briefly into the dining hall, had seen that Carruthers was missing from the Second House's table. As a first-ranked master, he held the privilege of eating in his own rooms. 

As Meredith watched in the shadows of the recess, a man emerged through the doorway across the corridor: Carruthers's valet. He did not notice Meredith; he was busy stripping off his white service gloves. As he departed, the corridor grew still again. 

Meredith stared at the door, wondering again why he was here. To risk the possibility of stirring up Carruthers's anger? Surely Carruthers must know, without being told, how grateful Meredith was to him. If the Head of the Second House had not stayed to hear Meredith thank him – had not spoken a single word to Meredith – it must be because the very sight of the third-ranked lad who had nearly killed him was distasteful to him. No doubt he had acted as he had, not for Meredith's sake, but because he disliked being trapped by Rudd. 

So why was Meredith standing in the Second House, trying to get up the courage to walk through the door in front of him? 

_No right duty that you perform as a master will break the bond of service that you offer to me._ The words seemed to swirl in his head. For him to come to this House without his liege-master's permission – for the second time – was surely no right duty. But when had he ever possessed any bond with Pembroke? What little hope he had ever held of impressing Pembroke, he had tossed away on the playing field, along with his reputation and his honor. And now here he was, spreading the filth of his presence to Carruthers, to whom he owed so much. 

The door was ajar. With his breath stayed and his chest clenched, Meredith walked across the corridor and cautiously opened the door. 

He saw what he had expected he would see: an empty sitting room. As a first-ranker, Carruthers was privileged with a suite rather than the single study-bedroom that second-rankers received. He was free to share the second study-bedroom of his suite with anyone he chose: his fag, his liegeman – even, Meredith supposed, his valet. Rudd had given his own second study-bedroom to Pembroke, while Carruthers – Meredith had heard – shared his suite with his closest friend, Arthurs. But Master Arthurs was at supper now; Meredith had seen him at the dining hall, sketching a drawing of a computer on the tablecloth to show to the student next to him. His door was open, showing a room filled to the brim with not-quite-illegal machinery. Whatever illegal machinery he possessed was presumably well hidden. 

Carruthers's bedroom door was closed. 

Meredith wiped the sweat of his palms onto his trousers. The sitting room, unlike Arthurs's room, was very neat and orderly; Meredith supposed it was kept tidy by Carruthers's valet. It was tastefully furnished. Whereas Rudd had covered the walls of his sitting room with games medals – only a careful inspection would show that Pembroke had earned the medals, not Rudd – Carruthers's sitting room was stark in its simplicity. It held a table and two chairs where he and Arthurs might study together, a sofa for visitors, and a lamp burning coal-oil – the local name for kerosene. The room's shades were drawn for the night. 

Nothing more lay in the sitting room, not even a rug. The room looked like one of the chapels built by the Egalitarians, who scorned the traditional decorative designs for houses of worship. 

Meredith looked again at the door. He could hear no sound emerging from it. For all he knew, Carruthers might already be in bed; after all, the Head was only recently released from the sanatorium. Surely it would be better for Meredith to leave now, rather than risk disturbing Carruthers's peace. 

Meredith's knock on the door was barely louder than a mouse's sneeze. He heard some sound from inside: Carruthers's voice, though the words were unintelligible. His heart surging now in his uncertainty, Meredith opened the door and stepped inside. 

The room was dark. The only light came from the coal fire at the grate and a lamp sitting on Carruthers's desk, at the far end of the room. The Head was sitting at the desk, his back to Meredith. Without looking round, he raised his hand, clearly to silence whoever had entered. He scribbled a few more words onto the paper he was writing upon. Then, his chair screeching on the bare wood floor, he turned around to see who the intruder was. 

For a moment, he simply looked, saying nothing. Then a smile – his soft, secret smile – played on his lips. "Ah," he breathed. 

Meredith made no reply. With that single word – with that single smile – all of Meredith's inner pretenses had been stripped from him. He knew now why he was here. He knew that Carruthers knew why he was here. There seemed nothing more that Meredith could say. 

"Have some cocoa," said the Head. 

"Sir?" Meredith could hear the bafflement in his voice. 

Carruthers waved his hand toward the grate. "Variel just brought me some cocoa. Pour yourself a cup and sit down. I have to finish this construe. It's due at my first lesson tomorrow morning." 

Meredith mumbled some sort of acknowledgment of the order and took a step forward. Carruthers, swinging back to face his paper, added, "And lock the door." 

Meredith froze in place. He stared at Carruthers's back, but the Head said nothing further. 

Slowly, like a man wading through chest-high water, Meredith turned and closed the door; then he pulled shut the bolt-lock. Feeling unsteady now, he made his way over to the grate. 

Like all of the grates in the first-rankers' rooms, it was built within the hollow that had once been a mighty fireplace, back when the school was founded. In those days, Meredith had gathered, entire hogs had been roasted on spits over the fireplace. Now, the only remaining concession to the reality that first-rankers liked to eat in their own rooms was a small grill hanging over the coals. On it was the pan of simmering cocoa. Using a towel that was hanging on a hook nearby, Meredith picked up the metal handle of the pan; then he paused to look around. He found the empty cups finally, standing all in a row on the lid of the coal box. 

Carruthers was writing rapidly, each word jotted in a bold but neat hand. He had just reached the end of a line when he paused. His eyes rose to look at Meredith, standing beside him with a steaming cup of cocoa, offered with both hands. 

"Thank you," Carruthers murmured after a moment. Meredith carefully placed the cocoa on the desk, managing not to spill it. Then, feeling very weak, he made his way back to the pan of cocoa. 

His stomach was roiling by now, but Carruthers had given his orders, so Meredith poured another cup of cocoa and looked around for a place to sit. To sit next to the door, on Carruthers's bed, was unthinkable. To sit on the floor seemed more fitting under these circumstances, but surely Carruthers would have been more explicit in his instructions if he had wanted that. 

That left only one option: a battered old sofa in front of the fire. Presumably it was a piece of furniture that belonged to the school, handed down from one student to the next, and beloved in its raggedness for that reason. Meredith began to lower himself, then realized that he had very nearly seated himself on one of Carruthers's books. Hastily, Meredith moved to the far right end of the sofa before venturing a glance at the book cover. _A Concise History of the Dozen Landsteads_ said the title, and the cover artist endeavored to live up to the promise of the title, depicting small scenes from each of the Dozen Landsteads. There was even a tiny picture of a domed city in the First Landstead. Meredith, leaning over and placing his finger under the picture, read the fine print there: "Prison City." 

"Are you interested in Prison City?" 

Meredith very nearly dropped his cup of cocoa. He stared up wordlessly at the Head. 

Carruthers filled his silence by saying, "A friend gave me that book. He believed that any man who considers breaking the law should be aware of the possible consequences of his act." 

Meredith stared down at his cocoa. He had witnessed Carruthers's boldness in the lesson-room – his willingness to state baldly certain unpleasant facts that most students would have stated in a sideways manner. It was said to be a trait he shared with his uncle, the High Master of the Second Landstead. 

"Yes, sir," he whispered finally. "I'm aware." 

He said nothing more. He could envision it all in his mind: Rudd's fury, Pembroke's coldness, the Head Master's disappointment, his father's broken heart. . . . Other than his father's heartbreak, what could happen to Meredith that had not already happened? He had lost his honor, he was scorned by all – and Carruthers was standing above him, awaiting further words. 

"I'm willing to take the risk, sir." His voice was firmer this time, but still he could not lift his eyelids to look up; they were as heavy as oyster-filled tongs. 

Carruthers touched his shoulder, very lightly. His voice was soft. "Then tell me in what manner you wish to serve me." 

Meredith stared at the cocoa, sweet and delectable. The cup remained in his hands, untasted. 

"All right." Carruthers's voice was barely louder than a whisper now. "Let me try a different question. In what manner do you _not_ wish to serve me? What is it that you would rather not do?" 

Meredith shifted his sweat-slick palms on the cup. He wondered whether he should say something about the rapes; then he dismissed the notion. It would be an open insult to hint that Carruthers might desire to act like Rudd, taking his pleasure on an unwilling man. Finally, Meredith managed to choke out, "Sometimes Master Rudd hits me for no special reason, simply because he's in a bad mood. And – and sometimes he laughs at me, when I'm in pain. I realize . . . I do realize that you may need to punish me, that accepting your punishment is part of my service, but if – if you could keep from laughing— I mean, unless you wanted—" 

Carruthers's hand, tightening on his shoulder, silenced his further babble. The Head said, carefully and distinctly, "I will never raise my hand to you in anger, and I will never make mock at you. I swear that, by all that is sacred." 

There was silence, as Meredith tried to think of what to say in response. Behind him, a shaded window overlooked the central courtyard; to the right of him, past Carruthers, lay the door leading to the sitting room, the corridor, and, eventually, the Third House. All was still. 

And then he realized that, really, there was only one response he could make to Carruthers's vow. Placing the cup of cocoa on the floor, he slid out of his seat and turned his body in order to kneel in front of Carruthers. 

He knelt on only one knee, the stance of a liegeman, but that was bold enough in itself. Placing his left arm behind his back, he grasped the inside of his right elbow and bowed his head. "Master," he said, in words he had spoken only once before in his life, at his confirmation to journeyman status, "what service do you require of me?" 

He had received no reply to that question when he posed it to Pembroke. But now Carruthers answered him: 

"Remove your clothes."


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

"What?" For a moment, he was sure he had misheard. 

"I want you to remove your clothes." There was a dangerous quietness about Carruthers's voice now. 

"But—" 

He spoke only that single word – in retrospect, it was the worst word he could have chosen – before Carruthers seized Meredith's hair and yanked his head back, forcing their gazes to meet. 

"Meredith," Carruthers said slowly, deliberately, "I have told you what service I require. Do not make me repeat my command again." 

Meredith might have been able to convince himself that he had mistaken the import of that command, if it had not been for the Head's hand, pulling back Meredith's head till his neck was stretched bare to Carruthers's pleasure, like the father of a household baring the neck of a condemned hog, on the eve of the Slaves' Autumn Festival. Carruthers's gaze was steady and methodical upon Meredith's. For a moment, the only sounds were coal falling in the grate, cocoa bubbling and hissing as it boiled over, and the distant chatter of students returning to their rooms. Then Carruthers released his hold on Meredith. He stepped back. 

Somehow, Meredith managed to stumble to his feet. Blindly he made his way toward the bed. At the foot of the bed was a table, in the traditional position where liegemen – and servants, back in the days when servants had provided such service – were supposed to place their clothes when they stripped for bed-service. Meredith fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, looking down at a glittering object on the table: Carruthers's dagger, which Meredith had never seen him wear except at chapel. 

"If you're going to kill me, do it now." 

Meredith looked back at the Head. Carruthers added softly, "I don't want to go to sleep each night after this with my back quivering in anticipation of the blow." 

Slowly Meredith shook his head and turned his attention to his suspenders, though his mind whispered over and over the words "each night." He had no desire to attack Carruthers, for how could he blame the Head for what had happened? This was not a rape; Carruthers had freely offered Meredith the opportunity to refuse him this type of service. Only Meredith's idealistic dreams – and his unwillingness to heed the warning of the boys he had overheard by the lamphouse – had caused him to ascribe pure motives to Carruthers. 

Carruthers had given Meredith the opportunity to say no; he had dealt more fairly with Meredith than any dredger had ever before dealt with a Third Landsteader, politely asking his permission before licking his bar. It was not Carruthers's fault that Meredith was foolish enough to have held dreams of serving a master who wanted him for his own sake, not because Meredith could serve as a handy tool to achieve victory over an opponent. 

He felt cold all through his bones now. The cold had nothing to do with the temperature in the room; any footer player endured worse temperatures than this, playing during the spring term. He felt as though his heart had frozen inside, leaving nothing to bother him with hopes or dreams in the future. He would endure this, as he had endured Rudd's rapes and the prefects' beatings and Pembroke's indifference and the scorn or disappointment of everyone else around him. He would endure this, because that was the only role he had been left in life: to undergo pain at other men's behest. 

"To the bed." 

Now fully stripped, he followed Carruthers's command, pulling back the blankets and top-sheet carefully. He did not know in which position Carruthers wished him placed, so he lay down on his back on the cool sheet, staring up at the ceiling. It was very dark on this side of the room, far from the lamplight and the fire. He could hear students in the corridor, laughing and exchanging friendly remarks. 

The mattress moved as it took on Carruthers's weight. Meredith continued to stare at the ceiling until Carruthers's hand once again forced his head into the position he wanted, so that their gazes met. The Head had stripped himself only of his blazer and vest; like Rudd, he evidently preferred to remain clothed when taking his naked lads. 

"Meredith," Carruthers said, his voice low, no doubt in order to hide their activities from the students outside, "there is nothing to fear. I won't hurt you." 

Meredith supposed that must be true, after a fashion. He could not imagine Carruthers engaging in the wild rutting that pleased Rudd. Carruthers would probably be gentle, as he might be gentle to a boat he had chosen to captain, seeking to save his valuable property from unnecessary damage. But no, that image was wrong: Meredith did not belong to Carruthers. He was not a boat to be loved and used for years; he was simply a tool for the moment, to be discarded when the task was complete. Meredith wondered how many days it would be before his usefulness ended. 

He had not, it seemed, succeeded in icing over the last of his hopes, for he heard himself say, "Sir, I know that you must tell Rudd about this. I know that that's the whole point. But if you could . . . if you could keep from laughing when you do. I can bear anything but that you should laugh at what you've done to me . . ." 

His voice faded as he saw the first signs of anger entering Carruthers's face, in the form of a furrowed brow. Meredith stiffened, waiting to see whether the Head would keep his other promise, not to hit Meredith in anger. 

The Head said slowly, "What are you talking—?" 

And then he was out of the bed, towering over Meredith, like a forward towering over a fallen player. "Oh, sweet blood." And this time there was no mistaking the darkness of his quiet. "You think I'm doing this as a _rag_?" 

And with those words, Meredith's world fell apart as he realized that, with his own words, he had destroyed the fulfillment of his dreams. 

"If you've thought that, why did you come to my—?" And now Carruthers's anger gave way to something infinitely more dangerous: a tone as cold as a blade slid between the ribs. "I see. This is your way of having revenge on Rudd." 

Choked by Carruthers's words, Meredith could not reply; in the next moment, he had lost the opportunity, for Carruthers strode over to his desk, kicked the chair aside with such force that it toppled to the ground, and then stood leaning over the desk, his clenched fists hard upon the wood, his knuckles turning white. 

"Sir . . ." Meredith, scrambling up into a sitting position, managed to breathe that single word. 

"I think you should go." 

Pembroke's coldness seemed positively tropical now, in comparison to the chill in Carruthers's voice. His tone was as effective as always in making others act; Meredith was fully clothed and on his way to the door before he woke from his stupor. He looked back at the Head. Carruthers had not moved his position. His head was bowed as he stared down at the desk. 

Suddenly, with a wild impulse that caused him to slip free of the hook of Carruthers's voice, Meredith flew across the room and skidded to a halt at Carruthers's side. 

"Sir," he said breathlessly, "I know what I was said was wrong, but I didn't realize— That is, I heard some boys from your House saying you wanted to make use of me for a rag—" 

He faltered as Carruthers turned his head, his expression now as blank as a locked door. Hearing what he himself had just said – the terrible wrongness of it – Meredith quickly added, "I know that there's no excuse for what I did. I know that I don't deserve the privilege of serving you, after I showed so little faith in you. I just want you to know: this isn't about Master Rudd for me, it was never about Master Rudd, I've dreamed for months of serving you, even before Master Pembroke—" He swallowed and said finally, "Sir, I know I should have come to you at once when you requested my presence here last autumn. It was wrong of me to have waited; it was wrong of me to have doubted you. I just didn't know . . . I wasn't sure . . . Sir, I've had no one to tell me what to do, because I have no master." 

The words – especially the final word – seemed to echo in the room, like an infinite cycle of rebirths. Meredith began to step away, but Carruthers's voice – deadly calm – hooked him again. "Sit over there, please." 

Meredith went where he was directed, to the battered sofa. He sank down, feeling himself begin to shake again. Every word he had spoken in this room had been the wrong word to speak; every action he had taken was wrong. He might as well fling himself into the cold waters of Richland Cove and see whether there was any hope that he would be allowed to be reborn and do better in his next life. But there seemed no hope even of rebirth. He sat on the sofa, his soul shrivelled. 

Time passed. Through the window came the harsh croak of a black-crowned night heron. The corridor was still. Carruthers's shadow touched Meredith on his left side. 

Meredith managed to say, "Thank you for giving me a minute to collect myself, sir. I won't impose myself on you any further—" 

He started to rise, but Carruthers gave him no opportunity. Suddenly the Head was sitting on the sofa too, the history book swept aside as he placed his arms round Meredith. Tenderly, as a liege-master comforts his wounded liegeman. 

Meredith lost all control then. He buried his face upon Carruthers's shoulder and proceeded to weep as though he might weep away all the pain of the six sun-circuits since he entered school. Carruthers's arms remained around him, warm and firm; one of his hands stroked Meredith's back. Nearly hysterical now, Meredith pressed his mouth against Carruthers's shirt, trying to smother his sobs so that they would not carry beyond the room. He felt Carruthers's body enfolding his, like a living dream. 

Finally, after many minutes, he managed to still himself. He pulled himself back, still blinded by tears; a moment later, he saw that Carruthers was offering his handkerchief. He took it gratefully and managed to wipe his face clean. He could see now the wet spot he had left on Carruthers's shirt. 

Carruthers waited until he had handed the handkerchief back before he said, "I should apologize." 

"Sir?" croaked Meredith, with the same bafflement he had felt at the beginning of their conversation that evening. 

"I wronged you greatly. I assumed that I knew what service you wished to offer; I assumed that I knew your motive for obeying my orders to provide me with bed-service; I assumed far too much, on far too little evidence. No, listen to me—" This, as protests began to reach Meredith's lips. "I should apologize . . . but the fact is, I can't help but feel as though we're like players in a drama. It's as though we're in one of those comedies where every word spoken between the players builds up misunderstandings, until the truth is finally revealed, and the breach is healed." 

Unexpectedly, Meredith felt his mouth touched by a flicker of a smile. "Like Mehetabel and Micah." 

"Exactly." Carruthers paused, and then placed his hand over Meredith's. "Let's begin once more from the beginning. I promise you that I won't make the mistake again of assuming that I know what your thoughts are. In return, I ask that you remain open and honest with me. People tend to assume that, since my uncle is skilled at reading people, I share the same talent. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have very little skill in guessing the unspoken thoughts and feelings of other people. So I need your help. I need it badly." 

Meredith stared at him, forgetting, for a moment, that he should not stare into the eyes of the heir of the Second Landstead. So this was what lay behind his many dreams of Carruthers as the perfect master. Not a strong, wise, infallible young man, but a young man oddly like himself: stumbling, groping for answers – and yet no less strong and wise than Meredith had imagined him to be. Perhaps part of his wisdom and strength lay in recognizing his limitations. And perhaps – the truth pierced Meredith like that hook which still bound him to Carruthers – oh, perhaps it had taken Carruthers till now to recognize the truth about Meredith's limitations, behind whatever idealistic notions the Head had held of the perfection of the lad he had chosen to serve him. 

The voices had faded in the corridor. Students were beginning to settle down for the final activities of the evening: studying or playing games or offering service to their liege-masters. Faintly, through the window, came the sounds of the Bay at night: the shudder of waves against the shore, the whistle of a passing steamer, the cry of a lonely loon. Meredith almost imagined he could smell the salt-sweet scent of the waters. 

"A while ago," said Carruthers, "you knelt down to me and spoke . . . certain words." 

Biting his lip, Meredith stared down at Carruthers's hand, which still covered his. 

Carruthers said quietly, "I have spoken those words too, to my High Master, and I have performed the obeisance to him; my uncle is a man who appreciates the traditional courtesies due from a liegeman to his liege-master. Is that why you asked what service I required of you? Because you wish me to be your liege-master?" 

Meredith bit his lip so hard that it hurt. It would be so easy, he thought miserably, to say yes. He would be spared the look of bitter disappointment that Pembroke always gave Meredith when he called Pembroke "master" or failed to show initiative or did anything else that hinted he was weak in his mastership. He could not bear the thought of seeing that look of disappointment on Carruthers's face, or of being sent away again. 

But Carruthers wished him to be honest. He said in a faint voice, "No, sir." 

After a while, he forced himself to look up. Carruthers was not staring at him, but at the fireplace, his eyes reflecting the light from the glowing coals. He said, without looking at Meredith, "A liegeman provides service to his liege-master. You are a third-ranked master; you have plenty of opportunities to offer service to masters above your rank. Why is that not enough for you?" 

Feeling shame burn his cheeks, he struggled to remain honest. "A lesser master provides service, but he also provides mastership. He must guide, direct, take initiative, receive service. I – I'm not good at that. I don't mean," he added hastily, though Carruthers had not spoken, "that I'm unwilling to do that. I know that it's my duty, and I try to do it every day. But – it's not easy for me. Not the way serving is." His voice trailed away. 

Carruthers looked at him then, his eyes somber now that the firelight could no longer be seen in them. "You are currently fighting a court case to have your rank as a master confirmed." 

This time it was Meredith who looked away. He nodded, swallowing a hardness in his throat. 

"Why?" persisted Carruthers. "Because your father wants you to?" 

"Partly," Meredith whispered. 

Carruthers waited. Meredith turned his attention again to Carruthers's hand, warm over his. He said finally, "My mother was a servant." 

"Yes." 

Meredith took a deep breath. He was sure that Carruthers knew the story – everyone in school must know the story – but there was a comfort in telling the tale to someone who knew the full truth about him. "My parents were both servants when they first met. My father applied to become a master, and he was accepted. He was one of the last servants to be raised to the rank of master before the Act of Celadon and Brun was revoked. When my parents fell in love, shortly before my father's new rank was confirmed, my mother applied to be raised to the rank of mastress, so that she and my father could be wife and husband. My father's liege-master – Master Pembroke's father – assured my parents that approval of my mother's application was a mere formality. He even permitted them to marry, though masters aren't supposed to be married to servants. There'd never been a case where a male servant was raised in rank to master without his wife being raised as well; my father thought that it would help matters legally if the two of them were married. And – and they consummated the marriage, because they were so sure that my mother would be raised in rank." 

Coals dropped in the fireplace, rustling against the grate; the fire was dying down. Meredith could feel the cool air raising bumps across his skin. He kept his gaze focussed on Carruthers's hand. 

"And then the Act of Celadon and Brun was revoked," he continued. "Nobody had expected that. It hadn't even been scheduled for discussion at the High Masters' quarterly. But it was revoked, and immediately all of the petitions for servants rising in rank were halted, while the courts argued over whether the applications already in process should be permitted to go through. Eventually they decided that the applications in process could be approved. But two days before that happened, I was born. And my mother died." 

Carruthers had begun to stroke Meredith's hand, his thumb running lightly over Meredith's, like warm wind. Struggling to keep his voice steady, Meredith said, "If a mother is a servant, then her child is a servant, no matter what rank the father is. That's what the high law says. But my mother was only two days away from being named a mastress when she died while giving birth to me, and her application had only been delayed because the courts had been arguing over the change in law. Otherwise, she would have been a mastress many months before my birth. So my father's liege-master gave me the provisional status of a third-ranked master, and my father petitioned the courts to confirm my rank. The courts have been arguing ever since then whether I should remain a master. They can't decide, so the High Masters have agreed to settle the question next summer, at their quarterly." 

Meredith raised his eyes in order to look at Carruthers. "It _is_ partly for my father's sake that I'm asking the courts to keep me a master. He has fought half his life for this. But he hasn't just fought it for my sake – he has fought it for the sake of the servants who want to become masters and mastresses, but who can't, because the Act of Celadon and Brun was revoked. It was revoked because most of the High Masters believe that you can't act like a master unless you have a master's blood in you, through both parents. If they decide that I deserve a master's rank, that will show that this isn't true – it will show that I can act as a master, even though my mother was a servant when she died, and my father was a servant not long before that. So maybe, because of my case, the High Masters will consider the possibility of reversing their decision and allowing the Act of Celadon and Brun to become high law again. That's why I want to be named a master." 

"Even though," Carruthers said softly, "you are actually a servant." 

Feeling as though he had been slapped, Meredith turned his head quickly away, blinking back tears. Carruthers's hand stilled upon his. There was a long silence, broken only by the whisper of the dying coals. Then Carruthers said, "It is a humbling experience for me to witness the deeds of Celadon played out before me." 

Startled, he looked back at the Head. "Sir?" 

Carruthers's gaze danced over his face; then he smiled. "That truly hadn't occurred to you? That you are doing what Celadon did?" 

"I—" He had to swallow before continuing. "I had thought sometimes that Remigeus/Celadon would have understood. 'In every slave there is a master,' it was said in his time—" 

"And he showed that, by taking on the duties of a High Master in his incarnation as Celadon, even though he was inwardly a slave. And you are doing the same: you are petitioning to be a master for duty's sake, even though you are inwardly a servant." 

He felt an overwhelming lightness fill him then, as though a crushing weight had been lifted from him. And at that same moment, something that had been speaking in the back of his mind all this while whispered loudly enough for him to hear. He jerked as he abruptly sat upright. "The words you spoke! When I knelt down in front of you, the words you spoke to me were the words that Brun spoke to Remigeus/Celadon when he first made Celadon his slave!" 

Carruthers was looking puzzled now. "Of course. Everything I said and did to you in those first few minutes was said and done by Brun to his slave. Didn't you know?" 

"No, sir. The edition I own of _The Tale of Celadon and Brun_ is abridged. After Brun tells Remigeus/Celadon, 'Remove your clothes,' the text skips to the part where Brun taught his new slave to build a fire." 

"Ah." Carefully, Carruthers pulled back his hand and rose to his feet. Gesturing to Meredith to stay where he was, he walked over to his bookcase, examined it for a moment, and removed a book. He returned to his seat and handed the book to Meredith. 

"You have given me a new appreciation of my father," Carruthers said. "Any books he gave me were uncensored. You'll find the passage where I've bookmarked it." 

The book fell open to the bookmarked pages easily; it was clear that these were the pages that Carruthers had read most often. Meredith read the passage, feeling heat enter his body as he reached the point in the tale where Brun took Celadon to his bed. When Meredith finally reached Brun's words, "There is nothing to fear. I won't hurt you," he looked up. Carruthers was scrutinizing his face. 

"I'm sorry, sir," Meredith said quietly. "I spoiled everything, panicking in bed like that. Celadon was afraid too when his new master took him to bed, but he remained obedient to Brun." 

"No," said Carruthers, toying with the bookmark, "the fault was mine, for assuming that you were offering that type of service to me. I won't make that mistake again. —No, listen," he added as Meredith tried to speak. "I want to explain something – something that will make clear why I made the error I did tonight, in assuming that you had come here to offer me your bed-service. It is not that I have no appreciation for other types of service – that is far from the case. But this has been the one area of my life that has presented me with . . . difficulties. You see, the only sexual desire I feel is for servants." 

Meredith stared at him; and then his stomach churned as he wondered whether he had doomed matters from the moment he told Carruthers that he aspired to the rank of master. Licking his lips, he said, "You . . . you must have many choices there." 

"No. Not since the passage of the Abuse of Power Act, which forbids masters from taking servants to their beds. And even without that act . . . Meredith, if I had told you tonight, at the moment of your arrival, that I wanted you to serve me in bed, and you had been disgusted by the idea, what would you have done?" 

He tried, with all his might, to imagine what it would be like to be disgusted at the idea of serving Carruthers. Even in the coldness of his fear, he had not felt disgust. "I would have gone back to my House, sir. You couldn't force me to serve you; I'm not in your House." 

Carruthers nodded. "And what if you had been a servant?" 

He felt the dawning of understanding creep over him. "I might not have been able to stop you from taking what you wanted," he said slowly. "Perhaps not even if I knew about the Abuse of Power Act. You would have had so much power over me, as a master, that I would have been afraid to say no. Sir . . ." 

"Yes?" Carruthers, who had been nodding, cocked his head at Meredith. 

"That's why you chose me, wasn't it?" His voice was filled with eagerness now. "Because I'm a servant, but I have the legal rights of a master. You can desire me and ask me to serve you in bed, without worrying that you'll accidentally harm me." 

Carruthers was slow in replying. "In part you're right; but it is more complex than that. I have wanted for many years a certain type of servant: one who felt a personal desire for me that went beyond the mere bonds due between an employer and employee. One who was both a servant and a liegeman, if you can understand what I am saying." 

"I think so, sir," he replied softly. It was an understatement; he understood completely what Carruthers was saying. It was what Meredith had tried to give Pembroke: his allegiance as a liegeman, combined with his service as a servant. But Pembroke had not wanted either his allegiance or his servanthood. Carruthers wanted both. 

Now Carruthers said, "You are a servant, but you have also been trained to be faithful to your liege-master; when we spoke together in the changing room, I sensed that dual nature in you. . . . So you see, I've been seeking much more than bed-service. Indeed, I can now see, thanks to what has happened tonight, that that type of service may not be necessary or appropriate. It may be that you aren't called to serve me in that way—" 

"But sir," he burst out, "I want to serve you – to serve you in any way you desire. You've already given me so much, yet I'm the servant. Shouldn't I be serving you? I . . ." 

His voice trailed away. Carruthers had a small, sober smile on his face – the smile he had had in the changing room, and in the library, and in the moments after Meredith had walked into his room. He said to Meredith, "You really have never read that passage before?" 

He looked blankly at the Head. "What passage, sir?" 

Carruthers carefully turned the page of the book in Meredith's lap. He put his finger under a line of text and read aloud: "'I don't understand,' said Celadon. 'You wouldn't let me do anything. . . . But I'm supposed to serve you! If you're truly my master—'" 

Meredith found that his breath had disappeared some time during the reading. His heart pounded inside his chest. He felt Carruthers's hand on his cheek as the Head turned his face. 

"It was right there in front of me all along," Carruthers said. "I should have recognized you from the start. Meekness combined with stubbornness that endures any depth of pain for the sake of others. Pure service combined with a determination to teach your master what he needs to know. The servant who took on the duties of mastership in order to care for his people." His fingers trailed over Meredith's cheek. "Remigeus/Celadon/Meredith. Truly, I have been honored beyond measure." 

Meredith remained wordless for a moment. He wanted to deny what Carruthers was saying, for Meredith, of all people, could not be an incarnation of _Remigeus._ But he could not directly contradict anything that the Head said, so finally he suggested, "And Brun . . . ?" 

"Ah." Carruthers's hand dropped from his cheek. "I'm afraid I'm not Brun. He was a master who served as a servant, and I've always been a master." He paused, blinking, then added with a smile, "Well, almost always. I haven't lived my life as a servant, the way Brun did, and I certainly haven't chosen to remain in the rank of a servant out of a sense of duty to my people. But I've always admired Brun and sought to model myself after him, because he was a master who held desires that could have caused destruction – yet when he was master to Celadon, he chose to mold his dangerous desires into gifts that would allow him to provide Remigeus/Celadon with loving protection." 

"Yes," whispered Meredith. 

Carruthers reached over and closed the book. He set it aside, his gaze returning to the fire, which was almost entirely dead now. "Meredith, certain things I don't know. I don't know whether there will ever be a day when you will be able to speak openly of the fact that you are a servant at heart. I don't even know whether you will ever be able to openly serve me in any manner. There's nothing I'd like better than to go to Pembroke tonight and request that you serve as my fag, but we both know that Pembroke would never allow you to do something that would anger Rudd so much. Perhaps in the future, once we are both of age . . . But I can't make any promises. All I can tell you is this: Remigeus/Celadon and Brun found themselves in a situation not entirely unlike ours, and during the time that they could not proclaim their bond to the world, they practiced it behind closed doors." 

"But that would be just as illegal now as it was then." He wanted, more than anything, not to say the words, but he could not help but speak them. Carruthers had already questioned Meredith to make sure that Meredith understood the risk and was willing to undertake it. Now it was occurring to Meredith that he ought to do the same for Carruthers. 

"Yes, because the Act of Celadon and Brun – the act that Remigeus/Celadon himself wrote – was revoked. Oh, I doubt that either you or I are at risk of being arrested; we could easily hide the full nature of your service to me. But even if people assumed that you were simply fagging for me, if it was found that you were serving me without permission from your official liege-master—" 

"I don't want to place you at risk, sir," he said quickly. 

Carruthers smiled. "It's not that great a risk in my case. Even if I was sent down, I'd still be a second-ranked master. And it wouldn't even affect my heirship; masters of any rank are permitted to rise to the rank of High Master in my landstead. So it's not me I'm worried about – it's you. Whether or not you were sent down to servant rank by the Head Master, if it was suspected that you had hidden your service to me from Pembroke, then you might lose your court case." 

He thought about this a while, staring at the dying coals. Or rather, he pretended to think about it, for of course he already knew the answer. He had known the dangers before he came to this room, and his response to the dangers had been decided in the moment that, realizing that Carruthers still wished Meredith to serve him, Meredith had not walked out of the room. He had stayed, knowing what he was risking, and knowing how badly he needed to take that risk. 

"If it was wrong for the High Masters to revoke the Act of Celadon and Brun," he said finally, "then it's wrong for them to forbid me from serving you in private. I'm fighting in court for the right to hold the rank of master, and here . . . here in this room I will exercise my right to serve my master in private, as the act allows. If . . . if that's all right with you, sir." He turned his head, belatedly fearing that he had spoken too boldly. 

Carruthers was giving him that smile again – that smile which seemed to penetrate Meredith with its seriousness. "Do you have any idea," said Carruthers, "how much you sound like your previous incarnations?" 

He was saved from having to answer, for in that moment, Carruthers took both Meredith's cheeks within his hands, and raising Meredith's face to his, he kissed his servant deeply. 

o—o—o

Some time passed before Meredith had a chance to speak again. Any editor of _The Tale of Celadon and Brun_ who was eagerly seeking to censor new episodes in Celadon's life would have been disappointed; Meredith spent that intervening time sliding onto his knees before the grate. Without a word, he rebuilt the fire. Unlike Remigeus/Celadon, he required no instructions from his master in how to do so; he had been watching servants carefully all his life, preparing himself – it now seemed – for this moment. 

Afterwards, to Meredith's great disappointment, Carruthers escorted him to the door. "Much as I would like to have you stay overnight, I can't risk that," the Head explained. "Your absence from your dormitory would certainly be noticed. Besides, I meant what I said before: Your service outside my bed is all I need." 

"I want to serve you in every way, sir," he said, trying to sound level and matter-of-fact, though he still felt nervous at the idea. Daydreams were one thing, but he had not prepared himself sufficiently for that type of service. It touched too closely on how Rudd treated him. 

Carruthers smiled. "And if ever the day comes when you can say that without your voice wavering, I will consider having you serve me that way. Until then . . . Is there anything you wish to ask before you leave?" 

He met Carruthers's eyes. It was so very easy to do so and not worry that Carruthers would consider him defiant, just as it was so very easy to drop his gaze without feeling any more that he was a coward and a failure. "Yes, sir. I was wondering . . . I know that I should continue calling you 'sir' in public, but I was wondering what you want me to call you when we are alone." 

Carruthers looked steadily back at him. "'Sir' will do," he replied. And then, before Meredith had time to wonder whether he had asked the wrong question, Carruthers added, "Or Master Carr. Either is appropriate in informal situations. When we are speaking formally to one another, you will address me simply as 'master.'" 

The same feeling of lightness as before surged through him; he recognized it this time as joy. "Yes, master," he replied. "Thank you." 

Master Carr smiled briefly, then said softly, "Kneel." 

He did so, with his knee half-bent between the stances of a servant and liegeman, feeling the joy begin to penetrate even the lower regions of his torso. Something lay there in the future, he was quite sure; with the help of his master's patience, that service too would be a matter of joy for them both. 

He felt his master's hands on his bowed head, and then – in retrospect, there was no reason why this should have surprised Meredith – Carr spoke the words spoken by every liege-master to his newly pledged liegeman: "You are under my protection. No right duty that you perform as a master will break the bond of service that you offer to me. You are a master in service, and therein lies your strength." 

"It will be my honor to serve you, master . . . and it will give me pleasure to fulfill my duty as a master." As he spoke the words, he knew that they were true. He would never be skilled as a master, any more than Remigeus/Celadon had been, but his very willingness to act as a master would bring good to the world. He had finally found someone who understood that. 

With tears streaming down his face, he took his master's hands and kissed his allegiance to them.

o—o—o   
o—o—o


	12. Master and Servant: Historical Note and Acknowledgments

**_Master and Servant_**  
**HISTORICAL NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**  


**Acknowledgments**

The books and websites that I consulted while preparing this series, as well as the museums, historic houses, and communities that I visited, are listed at: 

[duskpeterson.com/waterman/#resources](http://duskpeterson.com/waterman/#resources)

Any mistakes in this novel should be blamed on me, not my sources. 

I would like to offer my special thanks to Doug, who drove me to locations in Prince George's County, Anne Arundel County, Calvert County, and several counties on the Eastern Shore, not to mention waiting patiently while I took a long walk on Hoopers Island. I also offer my thanks to Spiralred, who provided me with a return trip to Dorchester County, and to David W. Wooddell, who provided me with a return trip to Calvert County. Without their generous chauffeuring, this story would have been much diminished. 

The verse sung by the treble in Chapter Nine of "Unmarked" is from Psalm 4 and is translated in the King James Version of the Bible as: "O ye sons of men, how long will ye turn my glory into shame?" More literally, the Psalmist is asking how long the sons of men will remain hard-hearted. The response sung by the choir is also from Psalm 4 and can be translated as follows (with "dominus" in its original Roman meaning): "Offer the sacrifice of righteousness, and put your trust in the master." 

The character Jesse comes from _The Slave Breakers_ , by Sabrina Deane (aka Maculategiraffe). How he made it from Ms. Deane's universe into mine, I have no idea, but he has a passage-of-port from Sabrina Deane herself. Ms. Deane's stories are available at: 

[Maculategiraffe at AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maculategiraffe). 

[_The Slave Breakers:_ official index](https://maculategiraffe.dreamwidth.org/103311.html). 

[_The Slave Breakers:_ fan index](http://teamcockbert.livejournal.com/28259.html?thread=3358563) _(scroll down to "slave"), with links to additional stories not listed in the official index._

[_The Slave Breakers:_ donation page](http://maculategiraffe.dreamwidth.org/profile) _. Scroll down for the donation button to the "Keep Maculategiraffe Solvent So She Doesn't Have To Sell Her Laptop (Because Then, No More Fic, Which Is Sad) Fund."_  


**The Bay**

The geography of the Dozen Landsteads is based upon the geography of the Chesapeake Bay region of the State of Maryland, halfway down the Atlantic coast of the United States of America. The history and culture of the Dozen Landsteads is more of a mixed bag: it is partly drawn from the actual history and culture of the Chesapeake region and partly from my own imagination. The Dozen Landsteads is an alternate-universe version of the Chesapeake region: it is what the region might have become if its ranking system, religion, and historical origins had followed the path described in this novel. 

In all other respects, however, I have strived to adhere as closely as possible to the actual facts of our world. I agree with the historical novelist Geoffrey Trease when he said, concerning one of his novels, "A whole chapter of _Thunder of Valmy_ had to be rewritten when I discovered by chance that a certain morning at Versailles in May, 1789, had been grey and drizzly, not sunny as I had first pictured it. What does it matter, a pedantic detail like that? Just as much, or as little, as the workmanship which old-time sculptors and carvers put into figures so far from the ground that no human eye would ever appreciate it." 

One problem I faced in writing this novel is that – due to decisions I had made while writing other series about this world – I had already established that one year in our world equals three years in the Dozen Landsteads' world. Moreover, this particular series required that the Dozen Landsteads have a 1910s culture, while its surrounding neighbors were living in a science fiction version of the 1960s. Rather than try to establish a middle path through the complexities of this dating system, I have taken the easy road and have simply based the geography and environment of the Dozen Landsteads' Bay on that of the Chesapeake Bay in the 1910s. In this alternate universe, the Bay has not yet undergone the conditions that would change its shoreline, waters, and wildlife in the twentieth century – though it is on the point of doing so. 

Because most of the place names in the Chesapeake region aren't widely known, I have retained them in this series of novels, except in a few cases mentioned below. I did this, not with any intention of confusing Maryland with the Dozen Landsteads, but simply because this would make it easier for any interested reader to locate the story locations on maps, both historical and modern. I therefore need to emphasize that, while I have borrowed the geography and certain cultural and historical features of the Bay from our world, the society and people of the Waterman series are entirely my own invention. 

A few notes follow on what is and isn't real about the novel's locations and institutions.  


**_The Abolitionist_**

_The First Landstead_ corresponds in location to three counties in Maryland: St. Mary's, Charles, and Prince George's. _The Second Landstead_ corresponds to Calvert County, while _the Third Landstead_ corresponds to Dorchester County. 

_The capital of the Second Landstead_ is a combination of Solomons and its nearby neighbor, Avondale. In the 1910s, Solomons was an important port island within Calvert County, because of its location at the mouth of the Patuxent River and its excellent harbor. It was mainly inhabited by watermen; the town on the adjacent mainland, Avondale, had higher-class inhabitants. Today, Solomons attracts more pleasure boats than workboats, but the roads in this surprisingly tiny town have not changed, so the walk taken by Carr and Jesse (along Charles Street) can still be taken today. 

_Carruthers Cliffs Cove_ is the unnamed cove between Rocky Point and Cove Point, next to the Chesapeake Bay in Calvert County. (Cove Point, incidentally, does have a lighthouse, dating back to 1828.) Calvert County is named after one of the Calverts – also known as the Barons Baltimore – who played the same sort of role of aristocratic leadership in Colonial Maryland as Carr's family does in the Second Landstead. In the 1910s, a house existed next to this unnamed cove, roughly where I have placed Carr's home. (Its exact location isn't clear from government maps of the time.) I know nothing about that house other than its location; however, Colonial manor houses still existed in this area in the 1910s. Likewise, wharves existed in the 1910s along the Calvert County shore, though not in this particular cove. The area where I have located Carr's home is now part of Calvert Cliffs State Park; you can walk down the park's Red Trail, alongside Gray's Creek, follow a side track onto the hill where I have placed Carr's home, and see the fossil-strewn beach where I have placed the watermen's operations of Carr's House. 

_Cliffsdale Manor (Carr's home):_ Few Calvert County manors have survived, and even fewer are open to the public, so in creating Carr's home, I have drawn upon manors in two adjoining counties. The floor plan, dependency, and some of the mansion's interior decoration are inspired by Riversdale Mansion in Riverdale, an 1801 Georgian/Federal house that became the home of George and Rosie Calvert (yes, the same family of Calverts). The slave quarters are inspired by those in the cellar of Belair Mansion, a 1740s Georgian house in Bowie. The chapel is located where it is in Carr's manor because that is its location in His Lordship's Kindness (also known as Poplar Hill Mansion), a 1784 Georgian/Federal house in Clinton. All of these manors are in Prince George's County, and all are designed in the so-called Maryland five-part plan, in which the main building and flanking wings are connected by "hyphens" (passageways). The exterior red brick and white trim of Carr's manor is characteristic of Maryland Colonial architecture. Finally, the inspiration for the scallop-shell pattern in the formal dining room comes from the drawing room of Sotterley Plantation House, a 1710 mansion in St. Mary's County. 

_Steamboats_ were active on the Chesapeake Bay in the 1910s. One such steamer stopped regularly at the Hoopers Island wharf at Hickory Cove, on a route between Salisbury and Baltimore, though I have altered the steamer's timetable and design. The harbor at Solomons is so deep that it provided anchorage to ocean-bound steamships. 

_Balmer_ is Baltimore ("Balmer" being the local pronunciation in our world for that city). 

_Anna's Port_ is Annapolis. 

_The traditional Maryland recipes_ enjoyed (or not enjoyed) by Carr's family are taken from a variety of sources, including Frederick Tilp's _The Chesapeake Bay of Yore_ , Frederick Philip Stieff's _Eat, Drink and Be Merry in Maryland_ (1932), and _A Cook's Tour of the Eastern Shore_ (1948), compiled by the Junior Auxiliary of the Memorial Hospital at Easton, Maryland. 

A landing platform for _airships_ in Calvert Cliffs State Park is purely my own invention, but dirigibles certainly travelled in the Chesapeake region during the 1910s. In 1920, the U.S. Director of Air Service reported to the Secretary of War that airships were being used for coastal defenses of the Chesapeake Bay. 

If ever I die of peacetime nuclear radiation, it's likely to be due to _Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant_ , whose future existence Carr envisions; the plant's 50-mile danger zone is within range of my home (as well as within range of Washington, D.C.). There has been controversy since the 1967 unveiling of plans for the upcoming plant over the plant's likely effect on the Chesapeake environment, which resulted in an important court ruling that the United States government must consider the environmental impact of any nuclear plants it authorizes. 

_Rowlett's shantyboat_ is based upon the reconstructed shantyboat (also called an "ark") at the Waterman's Museum in Rock Hall, Kent County.  


**_The True Master_**

I wrote "The True Master" several years before I had conceived of the _Waterman_ series, which is why it includes no maritime references. However, in retrospect, I've decided that _Celadon's_ _castle in the Ninth Landstead_ is in the current location of the castle-like Baltimore City Detention Center in Baltimore, the largest city in Maryland; prior to the nineteenth century, this prison location was farmland. The castle is located near the Jones Falls stream – close enough to the water that the High Masters of other landsteads can easily travel to the castle from the Bay, but far enough from the capital's harbor that it is less directly affected by fishing activities than most of the other Houses of Government in the Dozen Landsteads.  


**_Unmarked_**

_Hoopers Island_ and _Barren Island_ are actual islands on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, in Dorchester County. Due to shoreline erosion, Barren Island was abandoned by humans around the time that I have it being abandoned in this novel. In the 1910s, Hoopers Island was inhabited by watermen's communities. It still is, so that many of the features I mention in the novel continue to exist – including that terrifyingly thin strip of land between the upper and middle islands. The 1910s roads that Meredith walks down in this novel still exist, and the shortcut still passes through crab-crowded marshland. 

_Gunners Cove_ , _Fishing Creek_ , _Hoopersville_ , and other Hoopers Island locations I mention are real places. I've followed as closely as possible the actual geography and culture of Hoopers Island in the 1910s, though I should note that, in our world, both tongers and dredgers have lived on Hoopers Island. 

_The shop at Fishing Creek_ actually existed, though it did not have a post office, and I do not know its precise location. The shop was owned by a Mr. William H. Simmons; a picture of the shop's exterior occurs on page 83 of _Hoopers Island_ , by Jacqueline Simmons Hedberg (a native of the island, as shown by her maiden name). I have copied nearly verbatim an advertisement for the store, which means I must underline yet again that all of the characters in my story are entirely imaginary. I know nothing about the real Mr. Simmons, other than his occupations. My description of the store's interior is based on Ethel Booze Jones's recollection of the contents of Hoopers Island shops in the first half of the twentieth century, as recounted in her 1998 memoir _To Hooper's Island with Love_ , supplemented by Frederick Tilp's detailed account in _The Chesapeake Bay of Yore_ of Chesapeake estuary stores that he visited in the 1930s. 

_Narrows Ferry Bridge_ was exactly that. I learned of its existence many months after I had decided on the school's name. In modern times, it has been replaced by a steeper bridge. 

_Narrows School_ and the ancient lamphouse at the end of the school's peninsula are my own invention. No boarding schools have ever existed on Hoopers Island; however, a grammar school for youths was established in 1696 in the Western Shore port town of Annapolis. The grammar school merged in 1786 with the recently chartered St. John's College, which later adopted a Great Books program with a number of features from British universities. As it happens, St. John's is my alma mater. 

In the 1910s, _Richland Point_ , the peninsula on which I've placed Narrows School, was shaped as I've described. Most of the peninsula, like much of the rest of Hoopers Island, has since been eaten away by shoreline erosion. In the 1910s, according to maps prepared by the United States government, Richland Point was uninhabited marshland; it remains so today. 

_The lower island of Hoopers Island_ was inhabited in the 1910s, but not, needless to say, by High Masters; nor did the manor of a House of heirship exist in the obscure little village of _Golden Hill_. 

_The lamphouse where Meredith's father works_ is a composite of two "screw-pile" lighthouses (a characteristic type of lighthouse on the Chesapeake): Hooper Strait Lighthouse, now located at the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum in St. Michaels, and Drum Point Lighthouse, now located at the Calvert Marine Museum in Solomons. I have placed this imaginary lamphouse in the original location of Hooper Strait Lighthouse.  


**The watermen**

In 2006, while doing a web search on the address of the Annapolis townhouse I was living in, I happened across the fact that, in the 1910s, our townhouse had belonged to the McNasby family, who owned an oyster packing house in Annapolis that is now the site of the Annapolis Maritime Museum. 

At the time, the news held no significance to me. I'd lived in the State of Maryland since the age of eight, but like many Marylanders, I was unaware of the central role that oysters have played in the history of the state. 

The oystering customs in this story are based on turn-of-the-century customs in the Chesapeake Bay . . . including the custom of warfare. The decades-long gun-battle between the dredgers and the tongers – and between the watermen and the Oyster Navy, and between the maritime inhabitants of different locales – finally ended in the late twentieth century with victory on neither side. Today, a combination of overharvesting, overpopulation, parasites, and pollution has killed off most of the Chesapeake oysters and brought oystering on the bay to a virtual standstill. 

The ranking system I describe in my novel is of course entirely my own invention, though slavery did play an important role in Chesapeake oystering: in the nineteenth century, masters in the Virginia section of the Chesapeake used to assign oyster-related work to their slaves. To this day, many of the shuckers at oyster packing plants are black women. Moreover, turn-of-the-century immigrants were sometimes lured or kidnapped onto oyster boats and held in slavery by captains who were eager for crew (although it should be noted that William Hooper, a turn-of-the-century waterman from Hoopers Island, denied ever having witnessed this custom). In his book _The Oyster Wars of Chesapeake Bay_ , John R. Wennerton describes this custom of abducting immigrants as "one of the most shameful episodes in Maryland maritime history." 

While the religious faiths in this novel are my invention, Christianity – particularly Methodism – has played a central role in watermen's communities. 

The turn-of-the-century methods of oystering that I describe in my novel are still practiced today, though newer, mechanized methods are practiced alongside them. While much diminished, oystering in the Chesapeake has scarcely changed during the past century. Bugeye sailboats have almost entirely disappeared from the bay, and log canoes are no longer used as workboats, but a handful of skipjacks – sailboats developed for use by Chesapeake dredgers – remain on the water, the last remaining commercial fleet of sailboats in the United States. Oystermen and other commercial fishermen on the Chesapeake are still called watermen, a fifteenth-century word. 

I've based the watermen's dialect in this novel on modern-day watermen's dialect. Each region of the Chesapeake has had its own version of that dialect, but current versions of those dialects share certain characteristics, such as watermen's custom of calling both females and males "honey." I was unable to locate any turn-of-the-century accounts of watermen's speech, but mid-twentieth-century written transcriptions of watermen who had been "following the water" since the turn of the century show these men speaking in the same manner as many of today's watermen.  


**Football**

I created the rules of the "footer" game in this novel by blending my own imaginary form of football with the military exercises that took place in turn-of-the-century British public schools. During the 1910s, the "Rugby Code" and "Association" (soccer) had become the most popular forms of public-school football, but some schools still clung to their own forms of footer for home matches, as recounted during a slightly earlier period by John Corbin in his 1898 book, _School Boy Life in England_ :  


> The present Winchester game . . . is the most peculiar of all  
>  the games played at the public schools. The field is eighty yards long;  
>  but in order to make room for four games in "Meads," it is only twenty-five  
>  yards wide. At first, to prevent the ball from going out of bounds a line  
>  of fags had to stand shivering beside the field. The goal was a fag who  
>  stood straddle at the end of the field; and the highest single score was  
>  made by kicking the ball between goal's legs. In 1850 canvas was put up  
>  at the sides of the fields instead of fags. Tradition says, however, that  
>  there were holes cut through the canvas at equal intervals in order that  
>  the fags might watch the ball and chase it when it went over the canvas.  
>  When they were slow in getting the ball back they had to stick their heads  
>  through the holes and be punished for it.

  
As can be seen from this passage, the rules of football were intimately bound up with the rules of hierarchy within the school. Oddly enough, though, public-school athletics was a system that often clashed with the class system outside of school. As Arnold Lunn put it in his 1913 autobiographical novel, _The Harrovians_ , "The boy aristocracy is more rational in so far as it is based not on birth but on talent – athletic talent." I tried to give a sense of this tension through Pembroke's unusual position as a second-ranked Captain.  


**Narrows School**

The layout of the grounds of Narrows School (the Circle) is inspired by that of Lawrenceville School in New Jersey, which adopted the House system in the 1880s. The House system was invented by British public schools; in the 1910s, Lawrenceville was considered to be the most prominent example of an American school which used that system. The school's landscape was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who later designed Central Park in New York City. The "jiggers" mentioned in "Unmarked" are a reference to a favorite Lawrenceville dessert, although the actual recipe given here is of a favorite Hoopers Island dessert. 

Lawrenceville was immortalized in a series of novels between 1908 and 1922 by Owen Johnson, who had attended the school in the 1890s; according to literary historians, the novels were based on his school experiences. The novels were turned into an MGM film in 1950 ( _The Happy Years_ ) and into a 1986 series shown on PBS ( _The Lawrenceville Stories_ ); both adaptations were filmed on location at Lawrenceville School. 

Johnson's stories were very similar in tone to British school stories of the time. Indeed, the British slang that the schoolboys speak in _Master and Servant_ ("ripping," "chap," etc.) is taken from the Lawrenceville stories. It's an interesting example of how deeply British customs have embedded themselves into certain American institutions. Yet there is also a uniquely American flavor to the Lawrenceville stories; I have similarly tried to blend British and American traditions at Narrows School. 

I have also drawn inspiration from Selborne School in Dorset, England, as depicted in Alec Waugh's 1917 novel _The Loom of Youth_ ; I will have more to say about that in the historical note to the next volume of _Waterman_. What I can say here is that certain features of turn-of-the-century British public schools which are alien to most modern Americans are quite familiar to me. I experienced them in college. 

Although I was sadly oblivious as a student to my college's maritime setting (St. John's is located alongside a broad creek, just blocks from Annapolis's city dock), I was keenly aware of my academic surroundings: hours spent sitting in front of the great Victorian hearth in my dorm building, translating Aristotle out of Ancient Greek; students bowing and curtseying to the college president at the convocation ceremony (which ended each year with the president declaring, "Convocatum est!"); holding lengthy discussions with my roommate over whether wearing sneakers to seminar was a heinous violation of the decades-old dress code; addressing my boyfriend by title and last name in the classroom (because the students addressed each other that way in the classroom), and then addressing him by title and last name at a rock party (because the students did that as well); chatting with classmates over whether the latest Friday-night lecturer would put us to sleep, a chatting that ended with the swiftness of a guillotine when the speaker walked onto the stage and we all rose immediately to our feet in silent welcome; dressing up in cap and gown to defend my Senior Essay in an oral exam before three tutors – i.e., instructors – and a listening audience; and enduring the even more gruelling don rag, in which my tutors discussed my progress during the previous semester. ("We're wondering whether you'd be happier at another college" is the way one of my tutors put it at the end of my junior year. I dealt with that crisis by bursting into tears.) 

As you can tell from all this, formality, within the context of a centuries-old academic setting, played a central role in my college experiences. In the case of St. John's, the formality was spurred by principles of democracy: we students were called by our last names so that we could be granted the same courtesy as our instructors, who were considered to be fellow students of the Great Books we all read. Therefore, the underlying philosophy of our formality was different from that of Narrows School, yet certain parallels remain. 

It was precisely because my college was so wonderfully obsessed with protocol that our student pranks had an edge to them which is lost at schools where informality is the everyday rule. There's nothing like being pulled out of a formal seminar in order to watch the senior-year pranksters parody the seminar tutors by naming them in accordance with Chaucerian characters. That happened during my sophomore year, and along the way we were escorted past the underground, locked cells where college furniture was kept. Those cells, alas, played no further role in the prank; nor, to my knowledge, did the students hold their annual prank against visiting lecturer Mortimer Adler by pointing rifles at him . . . though they had been known in the past to turn off the lights when his lecture went on too long. 

o—o—o

As for the other details of life at Narrows School, I have adhered closely, but not slavishly, to 1910s customs in British public schools. My biggest departure is from the manner in which students rose academically: in the 1910s, a student entered a higher form when he was judged to be qualified to do the work, not when he reached an arbitrary age. 

The fagging system was certainly an integral part of public-school life, and if accounts from former students are to be trusted, bed-service was sometimes part of the bargain. However, in our world, the relationship between school hierarchy and outside hierarchy was often very much at odds. As one commentator has pointed out, many an English lord started his school career by fagging to a middle-class boy. The hierarchical system in this novel is therefore more logical than the hierarchical system in British public schools, though no less prone to stress.  


**Same-sex attraction**

Like the political, religious, and ranking aspects of this story, the social structure in which same-sex attraction occurs in the non-school portions of this novel is my own invention. I have no information whatsoever on any same-sex attraction that occurred in turn-of-the-century Maryland; certainly no social structure existed to support it. 

As far as the school portions of the novel are concerned, I'm on more solid ground. Close friendship, romantic friendship, romance, and homosexual activities – with the lines between these four states often well-nigh nonexistent – frequently occur in turn-of-the-century literature about British public schools. Even writers of boarding-school stories who had no interest in the topic of same-sex attraction often felt obliged to mention the subject in passing. Same-sex attraction is therefore "canon" in historical novels about turn-of-the-century boarding schools. 

The particular version that attraction takes in my own story – an attraction based on a difference in rank – is imaginary, though it parallels closely the classic literary turn-of-the-century boarding school romance, which usually occurred between a younger student and an older student who held the privilege of giving orders to the younger student (such as a fag and his "fag-master"). Writers of that time tended to underestimate the ethical problems that can arise in power-based relationships. I've tried to touch on some of those problems without forcing my characters to hold twenty-first-century perspectives.  


**Final thoughts**

While I have not tried to copy exactly any of the settings I mention above, I have used these visits and studies and memories to flavor my alternate-history rendering of a combined Chesapeake/British setting. As anyone who has eaten Chesapeake oyster stew knows, seasoning is everything.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Master and Servant_ editorial assistants: Yingtai and Joe Noakes.
> 
> _Master and Servant_ technical consultant: Emily. 
> 
> [Publication history](http://duskpeterson.com/cvhep.htm#unmarked).
> 
> This story was originally published at [duskpeterson.com](http://duskpeterson.com). The story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Copyright © 2010, 2013, 2020 Dusk Peterson. Permission is granted for fanworks inspired by this story. Please credit Dusk Peterson and duskpeterson.com for the original story.


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